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Class 
Book. 



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Cop>iight]^ 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



I 



THE LUMBER ROOM 
AND OTHER PLAYS 



BY 



CATHERINE BELLAIRS GASKOIN 





NEW YORK 

VAUGHAN & GOMME 

MC MX I V 



1 



{ ^ 



11^°' 



Copyright 1914, 
BY CATHERINE BELLAIRS GASKOIN. 



All rights reserved. 



JAN !4 1914 



X, 



r^ 



(§/CI,A361611 



^ CONTENTS 

V 

PART I 

The Lumber Room 5 

Fickle Juliet 15 

The Fortescues' Dinner Party 25 

PART II 

John Arbery's Dream 32 

PART III 
The P.G's 47 

PART IV 

Them Banns 76 

The Toolip 82 

Wrong Again 95 

N.B. — The four Parts may also be had separately, 
in paper covers, price 6d. each. 



The Amateur Fee for every performance of these 
Plays is as follows: — 

John Arbery's Dream and the P.G's 10/- each. 

In a Lumber Room \ 

The Fortescues' Dinner Party. ) 

The Toolip. ( 

Fickle Juliet. ( 5/- each. 

Them Banns. j 

Wrong Again. / 

All Fees must be paid in advance to the Publishers. 



THE LUMBER ROOM 



(Scene: An almost empty lumber room, the few 
things in it all covered with dust sheets, 
except a box or small trunk standing near 
the door R. Lights turned low. The door 
is cautiously opened, and a young man 
enters on tip toe, and promptly faUs over 
the box in the darkness, with a suitable 
exclamation. He listens for a moment and 
then shuts the door with great care, and 
gropes about for a seat. Finding no other, 
he seats himself tailor wise on the box, 
pushing it nearer to the door, and, having 
turned up the light, examines his ball 
programme with obvious distaste. A 
minute later footsteps are heard outside, 
and th)e Uoor opens and collides violently 
with the box. Looking round with the 
horrified air of a truant caught in the act, 
he sees a girl, also carrying a programme, 
in the doorway, and hurriedly springs to 
his feet.) 
She. Oh ! I do beg your pardon: I never 

dreamed of anyone else's being up here. Shall 

I ? 

He. Oh, no! Please don't! 

She (coming forward). And did I hurt you? 

Fm so sorry. 

He. Not at all! I enjoyed it. Where will you 

sit? Fm afraid you won't And it very comfortable 

here, you know. Try this box ! No, wait a minute ! 

We'll put that old carpet bag on the top. I don't 

know how clean it is — (rubs finger on it). Ugh! 

Disgusting! You'd better have my handkerchief. 

(He spreads it, and she sits down.) 



6 The Lumber Room 

She. Thank you very much. . . . I don't de- 
serve all this really, for Fm being very wicked. 

He. I'm sure you're not. 

She. But I am; I'm cutting a partner for these 
two dances ! 

He {with a quizzical look which she does not see). 
Cutting him for two dances! You don't say so! 
What a dreadful thing to do ! I'm awfully sorry 
for the poor fellow, whoever he is. 

She. You needn't be. I'm sure he's a horrid 
worm. ... I had to find a very good hiding- 
place, because my aunt will hunt high and low for 
me; she's that kind of woman. The Horrid Worm 
is a protege of hers, you know. I would have hid- 
den in the garden if it hadn't been such a wet night. 
You don't think she'll ever penetrate to this place, 
do you? 

He. I'm sure I hope not. . . . But what 
would happen if she did? 

She. Oh, I don't know! Of course she'd think 
I was sitting out the Worm's dances with you, — 
wWereas I don't even know your name. If she 
asked me I shouldn't be able to tell her. 

He. But what's in a name? Mine is sure to be 
Jones or Smith, and what does it matter lohich it is. 

She. Well, which is it? 

He. Whichever you like better. 

She. I don't like either. 

He. Well then, it isn't. 

She. Isn't what? 

He. Either, of course ! 

She. Well, as you say, what does it matter? If 
my aunt does come she'll be far too angry to care 
whether you're Brown, or Jones, or Robinson. But 
why are you up here ? YouWe not cutting a partner, 
of course? 

He. Why "of course?" 

She. Oh! it would be such a horrid thing for a 
man to do, though it's not unpardonable in a woman. 
But do tell me why you are up here? 



The Lumber Room 7 

He. Well — er — fact is, — er — Fve — er — got a bet 
on with a fellow — er — er — that — (struck with a 
bright idea) that our host shan't be able to find me 
for the Lancers. Awful bore, Lancers; I can't 
stand them at any price ; and you know what a fussy 
old boy Gray is, he'll hunt up every Johnny he can 
get. 

She. The Lancers? But the Lancers don't come 
for ages! (looks at programme.) Why, not till 
after supper! 

He. Oh! — er — No, of course not! Romancing 
boldly.) But — didn't you know they'd changed 
thtem to No. 6 — this next dance as ever is? 

She (springing up). Oh, have thtey? Then I 
must go down at once ; I'm engaged for the Lancers ; 
and I must trust to luck that I don't meet the Worm. 
(Examines her jjrogramme.) Oh, dear! It is awk- 
ward when you cut people's dances! 

He (getting betioeen her and the door). Yes, it 
is indeed! (Sententiously) '*0h, what a tangled 
web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!" 
Sweet poem, that, isn't it? Are you fond of poetry? 

She (ignoring him). Is that the band? 

He. No — the bard — a difference of one letter 
only ! But you haven't answered my question. 

She. Because it was such a silly one. Was that 
the band? . . . Listen! (Long pause.) Well, 
what's the matter noio? 

He (in a grotesque attitude of eager listening). 
I'm still doing it, that's all. 

She. Doing what? 

He. Listening, of course ; as you told me ! 

She. Oh, you are provoking! I'd almost rather 
you quoted ''poetry" than stand staring there, look- 
ing as if you'd seen a ghost. 

He (ivith alacrity). More poetry? .Delighted! 
(Assumes attitude of professional reciter, standing 
in front of her.) Now, what shall I give you? Ha! 
I have it. (With professional manner) — 



8 The Lumber Room 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 

All in a garden fair. 

There came a great spider. 

And sat down beside her, 

To tie up her bonny brown hair! 

She {unwillingly amused). How ridiculous, and 
how horrid! . . . Perhaps, if you have quite 
done, you'll kindly allow me to pass? 

He (throwing out, his chest and thumping it). 
Ah, but I haven't done ! I'm now regularly in the 
vein for it. Listen! as you yourself remarked just 
now! (impressively, as she sits down, with a gesture 
of impatience) — 

My man Friday 

Kept the house tidy. 

For such was his business to do so. 

Oh! Poor Robinson Crusoe! 

Ting te tang, Tang! Ting te tang, tang! 

(Sits down beside her.) 

She. How absurd you are! Do go away. 

He (in injured tones) . You want me to go away? 
Really? Well, I'm sure I don't know why. (Fold- 
ing hands, and rolling up eyes). I'm perfectly 
harmless; a child might play with me! So why 
you should wish to drive me away 

She (impatiently). Oh, how tiresome you are! 
I don't wish to drive anyone anywhere: All I want 
is to go down to my partner, and dance the Lancers. 
(She rises. He gets between her and the door.) 
Please to let me pass ! Really, Sir ! 

He. It's all for your own good. The music hasn't 
begun yet, and if you're such a very early bird 
you'll certainly catch the Worm — at least he'll 
catch you. 

She. I don't care. I gave the Lancers to Captain 
Carr, so it's his dance now, not the Worm's. 

He (shaking Ms head). Don't you flatter yoiir- 



The Lumber Room 9 

self! Worms are very tenacious of their rights, as 
you'd know if you were anything of a gardner. 

She. There! Fm sure that's No. 6 beginning. 
Please move out of my way. 

He (affecting astonishment after a moment's em- 
barrassment). No. 6? Why! I never said they'd 
changed the Lancers to No. 6, did I? 

She. You certainly did. 

He. Did I? Oh, I say! I'm so sorry! What an 
awful ass I am ! I didn't mean six, I meant nine, of 
course. 

She. Rathter a difference, isn't there ? 

He. None at all. It's exactly the same figure, 
only turned upside down! Now please stay! 
There's no earthly sense in your rushing into the 
arms of your aunt, and the Worm. (She sits 
down). (He moves round behind her.) By the 
way, though, worms don't have arms, do they, poor 
things? 

She (pettishly) . I think you're very flippant, and 
it isn't one bit amusing for me, I can tell you ! I'm 
sure I wish the wretch was at the bottom of the 
sea ! He's quite spoilt my dance. 

He (hurt). Oh, don't say that! Aren't you en- 
joying it at all? 

She. Of course I'm not ! 

He (sitting down by her on the end of the box). 
Really? Aren't you enjoying yourself (moving 
nearer) now, just a little? 

She (crushingly) . Not in the least. 

He. Well, nor am I ! 

She. Indeed? Then might I ask wh^y you were 
so anxious to prolong the situation? 

He. Merely out of pity, I assure you. 

She. For whom? Yourself, I suppose. 

He. Not at all. 

She. For me, then ? How extremely kind of you, 
Mr. Jones! But pray keep your pity for some- 
one who will appreciate it ! / don't. 

He. You shouldn't jump to conclusions. I never 



10 The Lumber- Room 

dreamed of pitying you, though now I come to think 
of it (pause.) 

She. Yes? Oh, don't mind me! Pray go on! 

He. No! On second thoughts I won't go on, or 
go anywhere. Fd rather stay where I am. 

She. Fve always been told that it's bad manners 
not to finish a sentence. 

He. I believe I've forgotten what it was about by 
this time. 

She. Well, all / can say is, I consider you the 
rudest man I've ever met. No one would be likely 
to forget you, I should think! 

He. Ah ! Thank you so much ! I fancied I was 
making an impression ! 

She {scornfully). An impressio7i! Oh! So you 
are, but it isn't an agreeable one. 

He. Ah, I'm sorry for that! Perhaps even 

the ''Horrid Worm" would shine by comparison. 
(Meditatively) If he shone, I suppose he'd be a 
glo2o-wormy wouldn't he? 

She. How silly! I don't think you've made one 
sensible remark yet, Mr. Jones. 

He. I thought we had agreed that my name was 
not Jones, Miss — er — Broivn! But I've no objection 
to telling you what it is; shall I? 

She (indifferently) . Oh, please don't trouble! 

He. I never do. But what troubles me is that 
I've got the most awful cramp! I can't stay like 
this. I really must get something decent to sit on, 
though where it's to come from goodness only 
knows. (He looks about -and finally discovers a 
rocking horse lorapped it}) in dust sheets; he drags 
it out triumphantly.) Hallo! Here we are; this 
will be splendid. But perhaps you would like it? 
I'm sure you're a horsewoman. Come, you do ride, 
don't you? 

She. Yes, but not in evening-dress; I require a 
habit, so don't let me deprive you of your mount. 

He (settling himself on horse) . All right. Whoa ! 
Ride a cock-horse, &c. Isn't he a sweet thing? He 



The Lumher Room 11 

reminds me of buttercups and daisies, and treacle, 
and ear-boxings, and velvet suits, and all the rest 
of it. {Striking an attitude.) Ah! the days of my 
artless youth ! It makes me feel quite maudlin * 
to think of them ! 

She {reflectively) . How much nicer you must 
have been then than you are now! 

He. Impossible! Quite impossible! But do let's 
get back to our quarrelling. Let me see! Where 
were we ? 

She {coldly). It takes two to make a quarrel, 
and it's a thing I never do. 

He. Oh, come! We were both hard at it, in a 
friendly kind of way, just now. Oh! I remem- 
ber! I was trying to tell you — only you ivoiild in- 
terrupt — who it was that I pitied. 

She. Well, who was it? 

He. The Worm. 

She. Pitied the Worm? 

He. Certainly, because I can see how you'll tread 
on him when you get the chance — tread him flat! 
I wonder if I know the poor beggar. Is he a very 
poisonous sort? 

She. Oh, I don't know anything about him, ex- 
cept that he's a pet of Aunt Eliza's, and I always 
hate her pets. 

He. I don't much like the idea of a pet worm ! 

She. The last three sh>e introduced to me were 
awful, and yet she thought them quite delightful. 
This new one she's only seen once, I believe; he's a 
friend's friend, and she hardly knows him really, 
but she says he's a perfect paragon. So, from past 
experience of her paragons, / should say he's prob- 
ably scarcely hitman! 

[* N.B. {If no horse is available, he hunts about 
vainly, and finally says) No, there is nothing 
whatever. Well, then, I must sit on the floor. I 
used to, years ago, in the days of my artless youth'. 
Oh! it makes me feel quite maudlin, &c.] 



12 The Lumber Room 

He. Well, that's almost what one would expect 
of a worm, isn't it? But what's the fellow like to 
look at? 

She. I don't know ; I've never set eyes on him. 

He. Never set eyes on him? Then how the 
dickens did he manage to book up dances? 

She (looking up from programme which she has 
been studying). Oh, she did that; Aunt Eliza, I 
mean. You see, he missed his train, (He grins)—- 
and had to come down by the eight o'clock one, so 
he couldn't get here till the dance had begun, and 
my aunt very officiously volunteered to secure him 
a supper partner. What are you grinning at ? 

He (laughing) . Your aunt, of course! I'm very 
sorry, but I can't help it. 

She. She put him down on my programme for 
Nos. 5 and 6, and the supper, and I was furious. 
So I thought if / cut these two dances, he'd cut thfe 
supper, very naturally, and it would be a good snub 
for Aunt Eliza. 

He. But, then, who will take the poor Worm in 
to supper? Even reptiles must be fed, you know! 

She. Oh, there are plenty of people ! He's prob- 
ably odious in every way, but he's very rich, I be- 
lieve, and owns a large property, so there'll be no 
lack of snobs to squirm before him. 

He. H'm! I always thought worms did the 
squirming themselves; the ones in my garden do, 
certainly. Well, you think he won't turn up for sup- 
per with you, anyhow ? 

She. Of course he won't — unless he's a hopeless 
worm — after my cutting tnese others ! 

He. Ah! Yes, — of course! It is a long worm 
that knows no turning, isn't it? Then what do you 
say to making over the supper dances to me? I 
can — arrange it. 

She. Oh, can you really ? That would be delight- 
ful. 

He. By the way, what's thte man's name ? You've 
never told me that. 



The Lumber Room 13 

She. Oh, I don't think I ought to, after running 
him down so ; and you must remember I don't know 
anything about him really; I only know that all 
Aunt Eliza's favourites have been detestable, up to 
now. Of course he may be all that she says, and 
more; perfectly charming, perhaps, and not a Hor- 
rid Worm at all! 

He {smiling to himself). I wonder! But please 
tell me his name 

Sh^. Oh, but I'm sure I oughtn't. — Please! 

He. Well, let me see it instead; then you won't 
have told me, will you? Give me your programme, 
and I'll write my name over his dances. {Takes it 
from her.) Ah! Milbanke! — Thank you! {He 
hands hack the programme and watches her.) 

She {puzzled). But you haven't put your name 
down! 

He. I found it there already. 

She. But that isn't your name? Why! You don't 
mean . . . ? You're not . . . you're not 
? 

He {quickly). The Worm! Certainly {with a low 
how). The "Horrid Worm," at your service! 

She {horrified). Oh, but how awful! What can 
I say? You'll never forgive me; of course you 
never will. Oh, it's too dreadful ! 

He. I don't think so. You didn't know, and I 
didn't either, until you said that about the train just 
now. 

She. Oh ! but it is ; it's awful ! 

He. Not at all! besides, I have a confession to 
make. / was hiding from you. 

She {amazed). Were you? 

He. I was, indeed. I thought you were probably 
a "worm." 

She. You are very rude. 

He. Well, but we're being rude, aren't we? . . 
You see, I found myself ready booked to you by my 
hostess, and — like you — knowing her tastes 

^he. You expected the worst . . and ran away ! 



14 



The Lumber Room 



Then {with a sigh of relief) youVe behaved no bet- 
ter than I ! And, as you are the '*Worm," I haven't 
cut your dances, have I ? 

He. Ah! but you meant to, you know! And 
Vm not only a worm, but, according to you, a hope- 
less one, — for I do want your supper dances all the 
same ! 



(CURTAIN.) 



FICKLE JULIET 



Characters: 

Mrs. Castle, an attractive widow lady. 

Juliet Kerr, her niece. 

Sir John Tyrrwood, a country squire of middle 
age. 

Clifford Broughton, only son of a wealthy squire. 



Scene: A drawing-room, or a garden. 

Time: Present day. 

Enter Juliet and Clifford simultaneously from dif- 
ferent directions. They catch sight of each other 
and both step hack a pace. 

Both. Oh! 

Juliet. Please go away Clifford! I came here to 
be by myself. 

Clifford. Did you? Well, so did I! 
{Both advance.) 

Juliet. Then you may as well go back where you 
came from, for you can't be by yourself while Vm 
here. 

Clifford. Well, perhaps there's something in that. 
{He looks about him, or out of the window, with a 
nonchalant air. Pause.) 

Juliet. Then why do you stay? . . . Possibly 
you are expecting me to go.? 

Clifford {turning round). Wait a bit! Which 
of us was here first? 

Juliet. Neither. We arrived at precisely the 
same moment. But it is usually understood that 
the man gives way to the woman! 

Clifford. And he usually does. More especially 

15 



16 Fickle Juliet 

this man, and particularly to this woman! But, 
first, do let's sit down, and consider the situation. 

Juliet. Certainly not (pause). Clifford, I'm 
waiting. 

Clifford. My dear Juliet, what for? 

Juliet. For you to go and be by yourself, as you 
said you wished. 

Clifford. Oh ! of course ! Thank you very much. 
But, do you know, I no longer wish it. 

Juliet. Well, I do . . . (Coldly) I presume you 
have not forgotten that our engagement is broken 
off. 

Clifford. No: I h!aven't forgotten that, — nor 
that you couldn't produce one blessed reason for it ! 

Juliet. Except, what is so stupidly called the 
woman's reason. But since I am a woman that rea- 
son should be good enough! 

Clifford. It does not count at all. So let me ask 
you once again, what I have ever done to offend you ? 

Juliet (petulantly). Nothing — nothing! That's 
just it. You never do do anything, never — I wish 
you did! Oh! it is all so dull, and I am out of 
patience ! 

Clifford. You're not; you're only out of temper, 
and you will be very sorry presently, while, as for 
your being tired of me, I don't believe it, Juliet, I 
simply don't believe it. 

Juliet. There you are ! So sure of yourself, and 
so sure of me too, which is far worse ! But now it's 
all at an end. Why, it isn't five minutes since thte 
last time I told you that, in the library ! 

Clifford. Really only five minutes ? It seems more 
like five years to me, and five long, dull ones, too ! 

Juliet. Ah ! . . . You know I did wonder why 
you ever wanted to be alone ! It is so unlike you. 

Clifford (gravely) . I believe I wanted to be alone, 
to think about you. 

Juliet. Oh, Clifford! Don't! You always man- 
age to put me in the wrong, and to make me feel 
horrid. I'm not good enough for you, and never 



Fickle Juliet 17 

was! But, for all that, why shouldn't I prefer 
somebody else ? 

Clifford. Why not indeed? . . . But it most 
mercifully happens that you don't. 

Juliet. Well, you oughtn't to make too certain 
of that! Besides, why shouldn't I be a spinster if 
I like, instead of being bothered with anyone? It 
would be far pleasanter to be my own mistress, and 
have no-one to call me to order. 

Clifford (smiling). Very well, then. You shall 
remain a spinster and I will remain a bachelor. A 
delightful idea! 

Juliet (quickly). You would like that? Then we 
shall &oit^ be pleased! (Pause, during which they 
both stand looking a.t each other, then Juliet turns 
aivay.) But pray don't trouble to remain a bache- 
lor on my account ! 

Clifford. Well, it might not be for very long. 
And of course as soon as ever we were tired of it 
we could be married. 

Juliet. Oh! And whom shall you marry, if I may 
ask? 

Clifford. You, of course, my dear girl, who else? 

Juliet (impatiently). Ah, I might have known 
you were only fooling. Of course I meant I'd really 
be a spinster, an ordinary middle-aged one, with 
grey hair, and all that sort of thing. 

Clifford. But you could never be ordinary, and 
it'll take so long for you to be middle-aged. And 
your hair doesn't turn grey to order ; you would Wave 
to either bleach it, which would be dreadful, or 
manage to have some horrid shock, which would be 
worse ! No, we'd better drop the spinster idea. But 
I'm quite willing to play at — what shall I say? — 
being disengaged to you for a little ! So now tell me 
who is to be my supplanter? 

Juliet. Play at it, indeed ! Fm not playing ! And 
I daresay there will be plenty to choose from, with- 
out having to go very far afield ! 

Cliff erd. What? None in this neighbourhood, 



18 Fickle Juliet 

surely ! There are only a few wretched mushrooms, 
are there? In fact, I can't think of anyone except 
that old idiot Sir John Tyrrwood ! 

Juliet. He isn't old! 

Clifford. Not old! Juliet! You were never 
thinking of that man? He's old enough to be your 
father. 

Juliet. Well, he needn't be so very old to be that, 
and most certainly he's not an idiot. He's a delight- 
ful man, and very kind, and good, and gentle, and 
upright, and honourable! 

Clifford (mockingly) . Dear me ! All the virtues ? 
Thten I'm afraid you would find him even more bor- 
ing than you do me, since my few little good points 
are so exasperating to you. Let me see, it is chiefly 
my inoffensiveness that you find so offensive, isn't 
it? So how could you ever endure a paragon like 
Sir John? 

Juliet (ignoring this). And he's been every- 
where, and seen everything, and came over with 
William the Conqueror, so he's not a mushroom ! 

Cliff ord (laughing) . A mushroom? My dear 
girl, he's a curiosity! I knew he was old, but I 
didn't know he was so old as that! Wh^^, he's a 
precious and most valuable antique, and you must 
certainly add him to your collection! I should put 
him into a glass case: (Meaningly) then he'd be 
out of harm's way, and a good thing too. 

Juliet (whose fit of temper is abating) . How silly 
you are, Clifford! You know quite well that I only 
meant his family is an old one. I do believe you're 
running him down only because you're jealous! 

Clifford. Jealous! Jealous of an old ass like 
him? I think there's no need for that: he'd never 
have dared to aspire to you, in any case. 

Juliet. Not wMle he thinks I'm engaged to you, 
of course. But if he knew it was all over between us 
you can't tell what he might do. 

Clifford (really angry noiv). You should refuse 
him, — I would insist on it, 



Fickle Juliet 



19 



Juliet (laughs, walks away, and speaks over her 
shoulder,) And what should / care? Fll tell you 
what, if Sir John does ask me to marry him, I shall 
do it, just because you said that, so it will be all your 
own fault. {She turns to face him,) 

Clifford {controlling his temper with an effort). 
Very well, Juliet. Fll — say goodbye now. You'll 
shake hands, won't you? 

Juliet {visibly melting a little). Yes, oh yes! 
{gives him her hand, ivhich he keeps in his; she 
smiles, but Clifford looks very grave) and if — if — 
it turns out badly^ you must blame yourself! You 
shouldn't have been so masterful, Clifford: 

Clifford. No, I oughtn't to have spoken like that. 
Will you forgive me ? 

Juliet {melting still more). Yes, I'll forgive you, 
of course. Oh, don't look like that ! Goodbye ! 

Clifford, And if — by any cWance — Sir John 
doesn't ask you? 

Juliet, Well, if he doesn't ask me, then I suppose 
— oh! there he is! Come away, Clifford, quick, be- 
fore he sees us. 

{They disappear.) 

Enter Mrs, Castle and Sir John Tyrrwood, 

Sir John {panting). There! I think — we have 
found a quiet spot at last for our conversation, Mrs. 
Castle — I have something very important to say, 
but I've kept putting off, and putting off, you know, 
for a long time past. 

Mrs, Castle {archly). Putting off the evil day. 
Sir John? It's a very bad habit! 

Sir John {quickly), Thfe evil day! Then it is 
to be an evil day ! Bless my soul ! the very thing I 
was afraid of, and the very reason I did keep put- 
ting off. An evil day, then, bless my soul ! 

Mrs, Castle {'demurely) , You are very mysteri- 
ous! I really have no idea what you're talking 
about. 

Sir John, No idea what I'm talking about? Upon 
my word; that beats all, T thought a woman always 



20 Fickle Juliet 

knew what one was driving at. Well, well! never 
mind that, Til try and explain: Now, look here! 
You've got a very charming niece. 

Mrs. Castle (much taken back). Niece? Niece? 
Oh yes! to be sure. Sir John. Juliet certainly is 
quite a chlarming girl. 

iS'^> John. Charming ! Just so ; more than charm- 
ing; most attractive. Couldn't be two opinions, 
could there? 

Mrs. Castle. Oh, well, I don't know : tastes differ 
so much, don't they, all the world over ! 

Sir John. I should like to see the man who would 
differ from me about Miss Juliet's looks! . . . 
Why in the old days I should have called him out, 
you know — called him out! Quite a beauty shte is, 
really, you know, hair and complexion and all that, 
— isn't she? 

Mrs. Castle (dully) . Oh, yes. 

Sir John (smiling). And, that being so, you can 
hardly expect to keep her with you much longer — 
what? 

Mrs. Castle (exasperated) . But I don't expect to. 
Sir John — of course not! You have evidently — 
very evidently — forgotten that my niece is engaged 
to Clifford Broughton. 

Sir John. Ah, yes, exactly ! I was coming to that 
in a moment. Been rathter a long engagement, 
hasn't it? Great mistake, that. Excellent young 
fellow, Broughton; fine specimen and all that; I've 
nothing to say against him, nothing. . . . Very 
good and steady. But Miss Juliet hasn't fixed the 
wedding day yet^ — what? 

Mrs. Castle (with a very stately manner). She 
may have done so, but she has not taken me into her 
confidence. 

Sir John. Ah! Then of course shte hasn't, 
exactly! So, I shall certainly put my spoke in the 
wheel. 

M7's. Castle, Sir John! I would never have be- 



Fickle Juliet 



21 



lieved it of you ! Nor have I ever been more aston- 
ished, or more pained ! 

Sir John {much startled). Bless me! what on 
earth's the matter? What are you astonished at? 
You're talking nonsense, my dear lady ; you've gone 
off your head, I'm afraid ! 

Mrs, Castle {grimly). I hope so! In wMch case 
I may have misunderstood your meaning. But, if 
I am in my sober senses, you are deliberately plan- 
ning to undermine the happiness of two innocent 
young people! 

Sir John. Undermine their happiness? Are you 
talking of Miss Juliet and Broughton? / under- 
mine their happiness? In what way, if you please? 

Mrs. Castle. By coming between them, of course. 

Sir John. Coming hetiveen them? I? You are 
certainly raving; there's no doubt of that. 

Mrs. Castle. Oh! Then I'm sure — oh! please 
don't be so angry! {feels for her handkerchief). 
I'm sure I beg your pardon very humbly, if you 
didn't mean that, but I don't know what you do 
mean, in the least ! 

Sir John {anxiously). My dear lady, for good- 
ness' sake, don't begin to cry! I never know what 
to do when a woman cries; feel so uncommon awk- 
ward, you know; and there's nothing to cry about. 
My meaning was plain enough, I should have 
thought. I want to hurry up those young people to 
marry, and take themselves off, so as to leave a field 
clear for you and me. 

Mrs. Castle {beivildered by the sudden reaction). 
You and me? You and me? 

Sir John {taking her hand). Yes, to be sure, — 
why not? I've climbed to the top of the hill, Jessie, 
and I'll soon be going down, and if you were there 
to give me a hand now and then, my dear, and a 
smile sometimes, — well, it wouldn't seem so steep! 
Tell me, now! Will you be there, Jessie? 

Mrs. Castle. Yes, oh, yes! . . . I'll be there! 
.... But I thought from what you said just 



22 Fickle Juliet 

now it was Juliet you were thinking of — to marry, 
I mean! 

Sir John {electrified), Juliet? I marry Juliet, 
. . . a chit like that? Bless my soul! I'd never 
have given a thbught to that child, if she'd been un- 
appropriated ten times over! / marry Juliet? No, 
my dear, Td know better than that, and so would 
she, depend upon it ! 

Mrs, Castle. Oh, I don't know; one never can 
tell. . . . Ah, John! but I'm glad it isn't Juliet 
you care for! She has Clifford, who is so faithful, 
and so patient with her caprices, and I have no one, 
and often feel lonely. 

Sir John {tenderly). Lonely? Poor Jessie! poor 
little wom^an! But you shall never be lonely any 
more; I'll take care of you, don't be afraid! {He 
moves closer to her,) 

Mrs, Castle {contentedly). No, I'm not afraid 
. . . . and I'll try to be a very good wife ! 

Sir John {seriously) , I know you'll be that; thte 
best of wives. {He lifts her hand, kisses it, and 
keeps it in his,) , , . But you'll let it be soon, 
Jessie, very soon, won't you? The shadows are 
creeping up, you know, and I want to make the most 
of my bit of sunshine. . . . I'm an old fellow, my 
dear, and you mustn't keep me waiting ! 

Mrs. Castle {passionately) , You're not old John! 
You will never be old, to me! 

Sir John {smiling very kindly, and patting her 
hand). Not old, eh? not old? My dear! my dear! 
. . . Well, too old to take any risks, at all events. 
(Enter Jidiet and Clifford; they start hack on see- 
ing the others, and are uncertain lohether to escape 
or declare themselves.) Come, what do you say to 
a double wedding? don't you think that's a very 
good idea? {Clifford looks at Jidiet in astonish- 
ment.) Fix a date, Jessie, an early date, mind, and 
let Juliet and Clifford be married on the same day 
that we are. Why not? 

Mrs, Castle, I don't see any objection. It shall 



Fickle Juliet 23 

be just as you like, John, that is, if I can persuade 
Juliet. Oh, I hear somebody coming. 

Sir John {promptly) . Then we're off. Come, my 
dear! {They go out, and tht other two advance.) 

Juliet {in a tone of elaborate carelessness) , Well, 
I always told you Aunt Jessie was a fascinating 
woman, didn't I? Now, perhaps, you will believe 
it! 

Clifford. All women are alike to me, except one ; 
you know that. 

Juliet. Ah, what nonsense! {nervously rearranges 
a rose she is wearing.) 

Clifford {softly). May I hiave that, Juliet? 

Juliet. This? But it's all faded ! Let me go and 
get you another. 

Clifford. No, I want that one, please. 

Juliet. Oh, very well! {She unpins it hurriedly, 
and holds it out to him.) 

Clifford. Won't you put it in? 

Jidiet {as she fastens the rose in his coat). There 
you are, then, there's your faded old rose! {She 
speaks lightly hut turns aivay very quickly to hide 
her face from him.) 

Clifford. Thank you. I have wanted that rose all 
day. 

Juliet. Your wants are easily satisfied. 

Clifford {very gravely). It seems not, sometimes. 

Jidiet. Anyhow, you always want things that 
. . . aren't worth having ! 

Clifford. Well, I think I am the best judge of 
that. The value of anything — to all of us, — is the 
value we ourselves put upon it. 

Juliet {slowly). Yes, ... I suppose so {de- 
murely looking up at Clifford). Of course Sir John 
wouldn't care for my faded rose, but he would for 
one of Aunt Jessie's ! 

Clifford. No doubt ; everyone to his taste ! . . . 
What a sly old dog he is! . . . Just think; that's 
what hte must have been after all the time, and you 
didn't know it ! 



24 Fickle Juliet 



Juliet (smiling). But of course I did. 

Clifford. What? You knew? (Pause.) Juliet, 
come here ! 

Juliet {dancing away) . Certainly not. Fm going 
to congratulate Sir John! 

(Exit, quickly folloived by Clifford.) 

CURTAIN. 



n 



THE FORTESCUES' 

DINNER PARTY 



Characters: 

Dennis EllgoocL 

Joan Ellgood. 

Time: The present. 

Scene: Mrs. Ellgood's sitting-room. 

SCENE I. 

5:30 p. m, 

Dennis discovered reading, in an armchair. 

Enter Joan, in her outdoor things. 

Joan, Well, Dennis, here I am at last {puts down 
card-case and gloves, etc.) . All the nice people were 
out, and all the dull ones were at home. 

Dennis. M — m — m. 

Joan. Well, you don't seem particularly pleased 
to see me! 

Dennis {iynpatiently) . Of course I am! But 
can't you see Fm reading? 

Joan. Oh, I see all right! I only thought you 
might have left off! 

(Sighs). Dennis! (No answer). 

Oh dear! how I sbould hate to get absorbed in a 
book like that . . . Dennis! 

Denyiis (crossly). What is it? 

Joan. Oh, nothing! . . . Only it's very dull 
for me when you're so taken up with that silly book ! 

Dermis. Well — get a book yourself! 

Joan. No thank you ! / don't want to read ! 
. . . . (Sig?is) . . . Did anyone call this 
afternoon? (No reply). 

25 



26 The Fortescues' Dinner Party 

Did anyone call this afternoon? 

Dennis, Don't know {settles himself resolutely 
in his chair, and holds up hook ostensatiously) . 

Joan, And did the box come from the Stores? 

Dennis. Don't know. 

Joan, Oh, and did Walpole send for the cabinet 
to be mended ? 

Dennis, Don't know. 

Joan, Oh, dear! Is there anything you do know? 

Dennis, Yes; I know I can't make any sense of 
what I'm reading when you're chattering like a 
magpie all the time ! 

Joan (injured), I wasn't chattering; I was only 
asking questions. 

Dennis, Well, for goodness' sake, don't ask any 
more. 

Joan, I don't know that I've any more to ask. 
Oh! tvho's been making hay in my basket? Was it 
you, Dennis? . . . Was it you, Dennis? 

Dennis, I didn't make hay ; I only looked for your 
pen-knife. Couldn't find mine. 

Joan, I daresay you never half looked for yours ; 
now did you? 

Dennis, More or less, — yes. 

Joa7i, Well, I wisW you ivouldn't rummage in my 
basket. And very likely the knife's in your pocket 
the whole time, as it was once before. (Goes to him, 
and feels in his coat pockets,) 

Dennis (tvrathfully) , Now, look here, Joan; 
this is the last straw! How am I to read with you 
fussing around me like a mosquito? 

Joan (moving aivay). How horrid you are! 
You've called me a magpie and a mosquito ! 

Dennis, Very well, my dear, if you like to say 
so . . . Now do go and sit down, and let us have 
a little peace and quiet, if it's only for five minutes 
(settles himself aneiv) , 

Joan (pathetically, as she retires to her chair 
again). It's very odd, but wWenever I feel particu- 
larly inclined to talk, you always want to be quiet! 



The Fortescues' Dinner Party 27 

(She tidies her workbasket in silence for a few 
seconds, ivith a martyred expression) , Oh, Dennis ! 

Dennis. What on earth is it now. 

Joan. I only wanted to ask you if you remember 
it's the Fortescues' dinner party to-night ? 

Dennis {straightening himself). Well, consider- 
ing you talked about it the whole of breakfast and 
the whole of lunch, I ought to remember. 

Joan. Well, but it's very important. The Fortes- 
cues have a lot in their power. They could do a good 
deal for you if they felt inclined. So for goodness' 
sake do smarten yourself up this evening, and try 
to make yourself agreeable, and leave a good im- 
pression. 

{Dennis grants impatiently. Joan rises and pokes 
the fire loith righteous energy.) 

Dennis. What are you doing, Joan? Why can't 
you poke the fire without all that intolerable clatter ? 

Joan. I'm very sorry, Dennis. But — oh! before 
you get absorbed again, — do settle how we're going 
to-night? Shall we have a taxi or a hansom? 

Dennis. I don't care a hang ; have whichever you 
like! 

Joan. Oh, well! I love a taxi. 

Dennis. All right, then ; have a taxi ! 

Joan. Ye-es. . . . Only, then, it's such an 
awful night, and I couldn't stand a taxi with the 
windows shut. So perhaps we'd better h!ave a han- 
som. 

Dennis. Very well, then, have a hansom ! 

Joan. Ye-es ! ... all right ! . . . But then 
. . . one's hair gets so frightfully untidy in a han- 
som. ... Oh ! I think we'd better have a taxi 
after all ! I'll just go and tell Mary. {Exit.) 

Dennis {settling himself comfortably). Well, 
now there'll be a little peace! 

Joan {retiirning, and approaching Dennis on tip- 
toe). Dennis, darling! — I won't interrupt you for 
two seconds — so don't be cross, will you? There's 



28 The Fortescues' Dinner Party 

only one more thing I want to ask! . . . whfeit 
frock shall I wear to-night? 

Dennis, Oh, lor! My dear Joan, what does it 
matter? 

Joan. Oh, of course it does ! Why, I want to make 
a good impression too ! The black one's newer, but 
then I do look so much nicer in the pink one ! 

Dennis. Little silly ! Why don't you toss up? 

Joan. Oh, Dennis, what a good idea ! So I will ! 
(She searches her pocket, hunts in her work-basket, 
and examines the cups on the mantelpiece!) No; 
bother! . . . Dennis! 

Dennis. Oh! what do you want?- 

Joan. I only want some money. 

Dennis {angrily). Only want some money? 
What on earth have you done with the cheque I 
gave you on Monday? 

Joam. Oh! I only mean some money to toss up 
with ; a penny or something. 

Dennis, {feeling in all his pockets). Then why 
couldn't you say so? . . . Here you are. {Gives 
her a penny.) 

Joan. Now, then; pink frock, heads, and black 
one, tails. No; the other way round — because 
somehow I nearly always throw tails, and I do so 
want to wear the pink one. {She tosses). Oh, it's 
heads after all ! How aiv fully disappointing ! And 
I'd set my heart on wearing pink ! {Brightening up) . 
But then, things ought to go by contraries, oughtn't 
they? So I shall wear the pink one all the samei! 
I'll go and put it out now. {Exit.) 

Dennis: I thought you said they were all right! 

CURTAIN 



SCENE II. 
(As before.) 



Dennis {dressed for diyiner, and in his greatcoat, 
shouting through his tvife's bedroom door). Joan! 



The Fortescues' Dinner Party 29 

Are you ready? Come along! You said you were 
ready 20 minutes ago! 

Joan (unseen) . Well, so I was, very nearly. But 
I can't find anything ! Don't fuss so, Dennis ! 

Dennis, Fuss, indeed! Anyone would fuss. Do 
you know the taxi is here? 

Joan, Well, I can't help it! I can't go without 
shoes! And these shoes — oh, bother! — they're all 
right 

Dennis, Well, then, put them on, can't you? And 
come along, do ! 

Joan, But, I tell you, they're all right 

Dennis, Well ; I say, put them on ! 

Joan, But I can't; — thtey're all wrong! 

Denniss I thought you said they were all right ! 

Joan, Well, so they are, stupid ! I was going to 
say they're all for the right foot. That's what I 
meant. 

Dennis, Then why on earth can't you say what 
you mean? 

Joan, Well ; you never would let me finish ! Ah, 
here's a left one ! . . . Now I'm ready ! 

Dennis (rapping on door), Joan! I refuse to 
wait another moment. Come instantly! 

Joan, Yes ! Yes ! all right ! But now I can't find 
my gloves anywhtere. 

Dennis, Then come without them! You must 
come, ready or unready ! Come at once ! 

Joan, Well, — they're gone ! I shall have to wear 
old ones — that's all! . . . Oh! these have been 
cleaned ! Do you think they'll smell of benzine, Den- 
nis? 

Dennis, I don't knoiv, or care! Will you come? 
Do you realize that the cab's waiting, and the fare's 
mounting up all this time? 

Joan, Well, — but I can't go without my hairnet ! 
and I've dropped it somewhere. WWat a nuisance! 
And the wretched thing doesn't show, because of 
the pattern of the carpet ! 



30 The Fortescues' Dinner Party 

Dennis, Well, — all I can say is, — Fm going to 
telephone at once, to say you're ill, and we can't 
come! I won't be brought to disgrace by your un- 
punctual habits! I'm going to telephone now, do 
yon hear? 

Joan. Oh, don't be so silly, Dennis! . . . Ah! 
there it is! Now, then! . . . now I am ready! 
There! . . . and I do think I really look rather 
nice! 

Dennis. Thten it's more than you deserve! Are 
you coming? 

Joan. If I can find my fan! — (Ah! there it is!) 
(Emerging). Yes, — here I am! — quite ready! 
Don't be cross, Dennis ; — and please help me on with 
this! 

Dennis (putting on her cloak, with many tugs 
and ejaculations) . Pest take the thing! 

Joan. Why — you've put it on inside out! 

Dennis (re-arranging it) . Bother ! ! ! 

Joan. And I'm not going on a night like this with- 
out the rug. Do go down, and tell Mary to get it 
out. 

Dennis. Hang the rug! You're enough to drive 
any man crazy! (Exit furiously.) 

Joan (puts the room straight, — then stands by 
the fire, idly examining the cards, etc., on the mantle- 
piece. Suddenly she starts, and looks closer at one 
of them) . Oh ! . . . well ! ! !!!... 
(Laughs to herself) . 

Dennis (returning) Come along, will you? The 
taxi's been waiting for ages, and I shall have to pay 
goodness knows how much before we even start. 
Ifs a perfect nuisance! 

Joan (smiling). Indeed it is! Oh, Dennis, what 
will you say? . . . 

Dennis (seeing her take off her cloak). What on 
eartW . . . ? 

Joan. Why! — I've just looked at the Fortescues' 
invitation, and the dinner-party isn't till next 
week! ! It isn't to-night at all! (She holds outthQ 




The Fortescues' Dinner Party 31 

card to Dennis, who seizes it, examines it, and tears 
it to pieces) . 

As the Curtain descends Joan is speechless 

with laughter, and Dennis inarticulate 

with fury. 

CURTAIN. 



I 



^^JOHN ARBERY'S DREAM'' 

A RUSTIC IDYLL. 

Characters:^ 

Prologue and Epilogue: 

John Arhery, a Crimean veteran. 
Thomas Field, a labourer. 

The Dream : 

Mrs. Arbery. 

John, her son. 

Mrs. Smith 

Dora, Meg, and Rose, her daughters. 

Susan, the farm lass. 

Robert, Bill, and Joe, village boys. 

Time: Prologue and Epilogue: c. 1910. 

The Dream: c. 1855. 

Place: The orchard in Smith's {later Orchard) 

Farm. 

PROLOGUE. 

{Cuckoo heard in distance.) 

Old John Arbery is seen approaching, limping 
painfully along ivith the aid of a stick, and pausing 
frequently for breath. Sound of faint ivhistling is 
heard. ) 

John. This be it, sure enough. {Looking back.) 
Ay! Th!at were a bit of a pull up, that were: it's 
set my old 'eart a-beatin' too fast. . . . {Puts 
his hand to hip heart.) But it were worth it, so it 
were: if it had killed me it would a'been, — just — to 
see — the old place once more — ah ! {He groans, and 
props himself against a tree. Whistling becomes 

32 



''John Arhery's Dream'' 33 

louder, and Jhomas Field appears, with a hoe over 
his shoulder, and in his hand a bundle tied up in a 
red cotton handkerchief : h\e comes quite close to the 
old man before he catches sight of him.) 

Thomas, 'Ullo ! Wha's the matter with you? Be 
you took bad, Father? 

John (in a trembling voice). No, no! I bain't 
took bad. But I've a-comed — a long way — , an' I 
be that tired. Fm an old man an' I bain't fit for a 
long tramp ; but Fd such a fancy to see the old place 
again. I be agoin' to the Union, lad. Ay! I've 
come — to that — at last. But I wanted a sight o' 
the old place first. {Draws himself up, and looks 
round). It ain't changed, not in all these years! 
Why, I'd used to be here at Smith's Farm, playin' 
in this very orchard, time I were a boy, 60 years ago 
an' more ! 

Thomas. Smith's Farm? This ain't Smith's 
Farm. This is Orchard Farm, this is ; Mr. Francis's 
place. P'raps, though, it may a' been Smith's Farm, 
time o' the ark: I've no call to say it warn't. We 
ain't been in thtese parts not so very long. (He 
throws down his hoe, and begins to untie his bundle.) 
Well, I'm going to have a bit o' dinner, I am. Set 
down, now, an' have a bite with me. (The old man 
sits down heavily.) Best set on the bench, mister; 
the ground's powerful damp. ( . . . ) That's 
right. This is good stuff, this is : and this 'er's cold 
tea ; that's good stuff too. There yer are, 

John. Thankee, lad, thankee! I'll not eat noth- 
ing, but a drop o' that tea I'd be thankful for. It'll 
may be refresh me a bit, I be tWat tired. — Ay! 
Many's the time we've ate an' drank down in this 
orchard in the old days — many's the time ! Dancin' 
we'd have, I mind, too, an' a couple o' boys to fiddle 
for us, Joe and Bill their names was, and they'd 
used to play the music for all the jungetin's and 
that round here. Ay! the fiddles was grand, they 
was ! 




34 ^'John Arhery's Dream'' 

Thomas {with contempt) . Fiddles! Well, I don't 
think much o' fiddles; a pore squeaky kind of a noise, 
I call them, Mr. Francis, now {jerking thumb over 
shoulder) he always 'as a gramyphbne down in the 
barn for the dancin', and that's somethin' like 
music. It 'ud take a rare lot of fiddlin' to come up to 
a gramyphone, — that it would! . . . 'Oo lived 
'ere when you was a boy ? 

John, Why, Mrs. Smith lived here, an' owned the 
place; ain't your never heard talk o' her? An' me 
an' my old mother, we lived in the little wMte house 
yonder, but we spent most of our time 'ere, with 
Mrs. Smith an' her girls. She'd got a precious sharp 
tongue, that woman, an' she'd be for ever a-argufyin' 
with my mother, that she would. Set an' set they 
would by the hour together, — all the while a-argufy- 
ing, and never one of 'em comin' no nearer to per- 
suadin' of thfe other. Times it would be about one 
thing : times it would be about another. Most times 
it would be about which was best, sons or daughters. 
Ay ! they was never tired o' that. My mother never 
had but the one child, an' Mrs, Smith, hers was all 
girls; bonny lasses they was, too. Ay! She'd a 
sharp tongue, but she were a right good woman, an' 
she were the mother o' my Dora {lapses into 
silence) . 

Thomas, Dora ! 

John, Ay! my little Dora, an' that's enough for 
me now, though I didn't set much store by it then, 
worse luck ! — I were a thoughtless lad, an' I never 
seemed to care much for none of them till I'd lost 
them, and it were too late. {Leaning forward.) I 
went for a soldier, young man, against the wishes 
of th'em all, an' I never saw them no more ! never no 
more! {Brokenly,) 

Thomas. Ah! Wouldn't / like to be a soldier! 
I'd take the King's shilling to-morrow, and thank- 
ful, if it wasn't for leaving my old mother. 

John, Ay, lad, you're a better man nor me; I 
wish I'd felt the same. — I mind the day now I went 



''John Arbery's Dream'' 36 

to the wars ; everything they said an' done that day 
is stamped on my mind, as clear as clear. Called 
away sudden, I was, sooner than we'd thought for, 
in the middle of haymakin' as it might be now, in 
this very orchard. Fifty-five years ago to-day — this 
very day! — That set up an' excited I were, an' 
felt that grand, I thbught no more o' the partings 
than that there blade o' grass. . . . Ay, — but it 
broke my mother's heart, an' little Dora's too. (He 
falls into a muse: sound of cukoo again, and 
of Church bells.) 

Thomas (prosaically) . 'Ow that old bird do keep 
on 'ollerin' to be sure ! I often wonder it don't get 
tired o' making the same old racket all the while. 

John (rousing himself). No, no, boy! I'm fond 
o' the cuckoo ; it do call to mind old times so. . . . 
Ay, and hark to them bells! 'Ark at 'em! Ay! 
When I were a young fellow like you, I never thought 
but what them bells would ring for my weddin' one 
day; but they never did, lad, never. — No, my little 
Dora she died afore I'd been long out in the wars, 
why, it's more nor fifty year since they laid 'er up 
in the churchyard yonder. Ay! (Rising), To 
think on it ! My little Dora laid away in the church- 
3^ard more nor fifty year ago ! (moves slowly away) . 

Thomas (stupidly). Ah! Fifty year! It do 
seem a fairish bit o' time, don't it? 

John. Fifty year! — an' here's her old John a- 
cumberin' o' the earth still, an' agoing to the Union, 
an' all : old John Arbery goin' to the Union ! There's 
never been an Arbery done that afore. 

Thomas (following him and. speaking briskly). 
Now look 'ere, Mister, we don't want to hear no 
more talk o' the Union, for you ain't fit to walk an- 
other step, not like you be now. You just stop 
where you are, and have a bit of a rest, and when I 
gets back from by 'arrand you shall come along o' 
me, and me and my old mother, we'll fix you up as 
well as we can, for as long as you care to stop. 
We're plain folk, but we've got a nice little 'ome, 



36 ''John Artery's Dream*' 

and anyways we're a sight better nor going to thte 
Union ! 

John, God bless you, young man, God bless you ! 
You're a good lad, you are. — Ay ! Fll come along o' 
you, just for a bit, an' thank you kindly, for I do 
think I couldn't go no further to-day. I be that 
tired! ... I think if I was to lay down a bit 
rd may be drop off to sleep, an' p'raps, bein' in the 
old place an' all, I'd dream a while of the old days 
I was tellin' you of. — I'd like fine to dream on it. 
(Thomas arranges some hay as a pillow for the old 
man, with rough kindness, then slotvly collects the 
cup, handkerchief, etc., and ties up Ms bundle 
again.) 

John (drowsily.) Ay! to dream o' my mother, 
bless her! — and the dancin' — and haymakin', and 
the fiddlin' — and Mrs. Smith and the girls. . . . 
Ay! and of my little Dora. An' 'ow I went to the 
wars, — fifty-five years ago to-day! (His voice dies 
away and his face drops doivn on his arms.) 

Thomas (picks up his bundle, gets up slowly, and 
shoulders his hoe once more, then walks aivay a few 
steps: but comes back and stoops over John.) 
Why, bless me! If the old chap ain't off already, 
as sound as a babby ! Pore old man ! he must have 
been just about wore out. — Well, mother'U give 'im 
a welcome; an' she'd never have forgiven me, not 
if I'd passed 'im by. (He stands still for a fetv sec- 
onds looking at the old man, then trudges off slowly, 
whistling, and disappears round a corner. Church 
bells and cuckoo are heard again, followed by soft 
music, and after two or three minutes John's dream 
begins.) 



THE DREAM. 

(Enter Rose and Meg, running). 

Rose. There, Meg, I did get here first ! 

Meg. No, you didn't. Besides, you had a start. 



*'John Arbery^s Dream'' 37 

Make h^ste, boys, or we'll never get done. Here 
comes Dora : Let's hide her rake ! 

Rose. She won't care: she's so taken up with 
John. Don't they look silly? Ah, I wish / was a 
man, and going out to the wars, don't you? 

Meg, No, of course I don't. I wouldn't want to 
have my head cut off, or something dreadful happen. 
Dora, come along, and do your share! Dora! 

'r)ra. What? Oh, yes! I'm coming. Come and 
help me, Johnny, won't you? Let's go over thtere! 
Where's my rake? Meg! what have you done with 
my rake? Oh, Johnny, promise me you won't get 
killed! 

Johnny (tossing hay). Don't be stupid, Dora! 
I dare say I shall. There'll be better men than me 
killed, too, you may be sure of that. It don't make 
much odds, eithter, as I can see. 

Dora, Oh, John, how can you talk so? and me 
so miserable already! 

Johnny, Well, I'd just as soon die, come to that, 
as stop on in this dead-alive place, year in and year 
out. I want to see a bit o' life, / do. 

Dora (smiling through tears,) Well, if you was 
to die, it's not much of life you'd see, is it, John? 
Oh, I wish you wouldn't go : I wish anything might 
happen so you couldn't, 

John, And that's a nice tMng to say to a fellow 
what's set his 'eart on goin' out. You're selfish, 
Dora, real selfish; all women are. They don't see 
a man ought to do what's best for 'imself, — Oh, 
'ere's your rake! come on and do a bit of work! 
that'll make you feel a lot better, that will — An' 
don't you fret: I'll come back to plague you all yet! 

(Enter Mrs, Smith and Mrs. Arhery, folloived by 
Susan carrying a basket of peas,) 

Mrs. S. (briskly). Put 'em down, Susan, and get 
to the hay, quick, lass! (sits and shells peas vigor- 
ously) , Now, then, what are you all doing? Idling, 
some of you, I'll be bound ! Rose, you'd ought to be 
ashamed of yourself, romping like that along o' the 



38 ''John Arbery's Dream*' 

boys. Go back to your place and mind your work! 
Dora, you'll not be finished while Christmas with- 
out you put more 'eart into the job. Deary me! 
wWat worriments girls are, to be sure ! 

Mrs. A. (who is seated and knitting). Yes, that 
they are: Fm real glad I never 'ad any. There's 
my John, now, that's a good lad, and something for 
any mother to be proud of; — worth a dozen girls 
any day. 

, Mrs. S. (sharply). An' what may you mean by 
that, Mary Jane? Anyone as 'as a word to say 
against my girls 

Mrs. A. No, no, Eliza! they're just flibberty-gib- 
bets, that's all, same as all girls are: no worse than 
most, I daresay. 

Mrs. S. No tuorse than most! A pretty thing to 
say to a mother about her daughters, Mary Jane! 
They're the best girls in England, — that they are, — 
and if they wasn't I'd sooner have them twenty 
times over than a stuck up boy that don't think of 
nobody but 'imself, and turns his back for good and 
all on his own flesh and blood as cool as you please ! 

Mrs. A. And if it's my John you're meaning, it's 
a fine tMng he's doing, going off to defend his 
country an' that. 

Mrs. S. H'm! He'd be doing what was a deal 

finer if he left that to other folks, and stopped be'ind 

with Ihose as want him, and are fit to break their 

silly hearts over him! I've no patience with him, 

, nor with them either. 

Mrs. A. (resignedly). Well, we needn't go an' 
quarrel, Eliza. You're going to keep your girls, 
any way, an' I've got to lose my dear boy, an' never 
know no peace so long as he's in furrin parts: for 
fear he go and get killed, or be springin' a black 
wife on me one o' these days, as I've heard tell sol- 
diers do, now and agen. . . . Not that there's 
anyone here good enough for my lad, not by a long 
way ! Still, if he do marry one day, I'd like it to 



''John Arbery's Dream'' 39 

be a white woman, if so be as I could find his equals 
anywhere. 

Mrs. S. (scornfully) . 'His equals/ indeed! Well, 
there! I never heard the like!; Why he's nothing 
only a foolish boy, and it'll be long whiles before any 
one go bothering their hteads about him, white or 
black! — Robert, have the musicianers come? 

Robert, Yes, they're over yonder. Mum. 

Mrs, S. Well, we'll have a dance by an' by, lad. 
May be you'll all get on faster with the hay after 
it. 

Meg, There ! I'm sure I've done twice the work 
of Dora an' John put together. Dora! you're the 
laziest girl I ever set eyes on. You've not done 
hardly nothing, nor John, neither! You don't de- 
serve a dance, John! 7'm not going to dance witW 
you, so there ! 

John, You needn't be troublin' yourself, Meg, I 
warn't goin' to ask you! I be goin' to dance with 
Dora. . . . Ah! but I'll be having better sport 
nor dancin' very soon. Just think o' bein' in a real 
battle, and killin' off the enemy like flies ! 

Dora, Oh, John! how cruel! And they're just as 
likely to kill you. — Oh ! I can't a-bear to think of it ! 
If I was a man, I'd go out too, and then we'd both 
be killed! Ah, Johnny, I couldn't go on living, not 
if you was dead; you that's played with' me ever 
since I was a baby. 

John (impatiently). Don't talk so silly, Dora! 
There's plenty o' good fish in the sea, and you 
shouldn't worry a man so. Can't you let me be? — 
Oh! I'm sick and tired of this job! I'm tired of 
everything, I am. (Drops his rake and throws him- 
self down in the hay,) 

Dora. Oh, Johnny! you're not tired of us? Not 
tired of me, are you ? 

John, Oh! I don't know! Very like I am (very 
crossly) : I tell you I'm tired of everything. Girls 
do plague so: go and talk to the others a bit, and 
leave me be! (Buries his face,) 



40 . ''John Arbery's Dream'' 

Dora (tearfully) . I — don't — want — to — t — ^t — 
talk to no one. Fm m — miserable; I just wish I'd 
never been born ! (Puts her apron up to her eyes, 
and goes slowly away^ to a corner of the field, where 
she sits down, and cries silently.) 

Mrs. A. Why, look-a-there, Eliza, just look at 
your Dora ! She an' my John must have been havin' 
some words : she's been giving him some of hter impi- 
dence, I'll be bound ! 

Mrs. S. (firing up). Impidence, indeed! My 
Dora, that's more like a little angel nor anything? 
No, that ain't thte ways of it: It's John been rude* 
to her, more like, and took her up sharp, the way he 
do time and agen, and did ought to be ashamed of 
himself. Impidence! I like the notion o' that! 

Mrs. A. (plaintively). Well, you needn't be so 
down on a body, every time she open her mouth. But 
(sighing) you always did fly out at any one: I mind 
it was just the same when you was a girl. Deary 
me, yes — ! And as for John, boys will be boys, 
Eliza; you'd ought to remember that. 

Mrs. S. Boys will be men, got time, Mary Jane, 
— that's what / look to. And I'm sorry for any one, 
that I am, as has got to live with John, then, if he 
don't learn to think of other folk's feelin's more'n 
what he do now. (Glances at Mrs. A. and relents 
someivhat.) There, now! I don't want to be any 
ways unkind, but I'd have you to see as John's only 
an or'nary boy, an' not be so sot on him, an' think 
Mm something out o' the way. He's a good boy 
enough, though, / daresay, an' he'll get back all right 
from the wars, see if he don't! 

Meg. Dora, how are you getting on over there? 
What? You've never been crying! Whatever's 
the matter? 

Dora (pettishly). There's nothing the matter; 
go away, Meg! I — believe — I've been stung, but I 
don't want any one looking and bothering! 



''John Arbery's Dream'' 41 

Meg, Oh, well! you are cross, Dora. Tm sure 
I don't know what's come over you. (Strolls away 
again,) 

John (lifting his face). What's that, Dora? Been 
stung, have you? 

Dora, No, not really, John : leastways, if any one's 
stung me, it was you, when you — said — very like 
you was tired o' me and all of us ! 

John (springing up). No, no, Dora. I didn't 
mean that, not a bit: of course I didn't! you 
shouldn't take a fellow so serious. Come ! cheer up, 
and let's have a dance ! You and me'll be partners. 

Dora (her face lighting up). Oh, John! that will 
be nice! — AW! but how long will it be before we 
dance together again, John? 

John (airily). Oh! not long, I daresay! Chaps 
mostly come back, you know, and if they don't, 
well, they don't, and there' an end on it. Come on ! 
Where's the fiddlers? I'll get them to start. (He 
takes her hand, and they run across to the mothers.) 

Dora, Mother, we want the music. Can we Wave 
the music? 

Mrs, A, (mournfully), I'm sure / don't know 
what you want with dancin', all of you I don't 'old 
with mtisic an' caperin', when there's partin's 
about! Next time you dance here, John, it'll be 
on my grave, most like! I'll not see you no more, 
lad; there's something tells me I'll not see you no 
more. The light o' my old eyes as you be, too ! 

John, No, no! I'll be all right, mother; don't 
you go frettin' ! 

Mrs, S, (briskly gathering up the pods in her 
apron, and. getting to her feci). This 'ere talk's all 
stuff and nonsense, Mary Jane, that's what it is! 
Do give over, and try and be a bit more cheerful ! 
The boy'll come back, as safe as a church, and we'll 
all live to wish he'd stopped where he was; won't 
we, John? Now then, boys, tune up your music, 
and don't waste no more time than what you've 
done already. T told you to bring your fiddles an' 



42 ''John Arbery's Dream'' 

that down to the field this morning. Why didn't you 
do as you was told? 

Joe and Bill (together) , We done, Mum. 

Mrs. S. Oh, you done, done you? Well then, 
tune up quick, there's good boys. Mary, you'll have 
to hop around with me : do your old bones good, too ! 

Mrs. A. Me dance? No, thank you, Eliza, I don't 
feel like dancin' : I feel more like settin' 'ere to have 
a good cry, I do. Joe, that there 'orriblej noise >' 
yours go through my 'ead. To call thte like o' that 
music! 

Joe (in an injured tone). This ain't music. Mis' 
Arbery; this is tuning tMs is. The fiddle's all out 
o' tune (tvith a grimace at Mrs. Smith) with layin' 
in the damp grass all this long while. 

Mrs. A. Ah, well! There's 'earts out o' tune as 
well as fiddles this day. Deary me yes ! an' plenty o' 
folks as hasn't got 'earts, semin'ly! Poor Johnny! 
There's only me an' Dora as cares for 'im out of them 
all ! Dora, what was you cry in' about just now oveir 
there ? 

Do7^a (indignantly). Crying? And what would 
/ be drying for, Mrs. Arbery? You must have 
fancied it, or may be it was when I got a fly in my 
eye a while back. (With forced gaiety.) Come on, 
John, I'm longing to dance! Give us Sir Roger, 
Bill. 

Bill (nudging Joe). 'Urry up, Joe! Whatever be 
you so long for? 

Joe. Well, the fiddles bain't in tune together, 
stupid ! You're flatter than me, you are. 

Bill. That don't matter. We needn't be so mighty 
partic'ler; I dessay it's near enough. Come on, 
now! One, two — 

Joe. Where be yer? I dunno which tune you're 
at. Oh! all right: go on yourself, then. (They be- 
gin ''Sir Roger''; all dance.) 

Mrs. A. (Breaks aivay from her partner, and 
clutches a tree, gasping for breath). Oh, deary-me! 
oW deary-me! Let me get my breath, Eliza! you 



''John Arbery's Dream'' 43 

was nearly the death o' me, you was. How my poor 
heart do beat! An' the idea of a couple o' middle- 
aged females makin' such a exhibitton of their 
selves ! 

Mrs. S. That's all gammon, that is! And rm 
not so middle-aged as all that comes too; you can 
speak for yourself, if you please! Come on, now, 
and have another turn ! 

Mrs. A. (shaking her head). Not me: Fve had 
enough of it, / have. If you want to prance any 
more you can prance by yourself, Eliza Smith, 
thbugh, Fd be ashamed o' myself if I was you! 
We ain't so young as we was, you'll allow that any- 
ways, an' to go lumberin' about more like a couple 
o' they old cows in the medder there — , no ! it don't 
suit Mary Jane Arbery, I'll set me down, an' beyave 
accordin' to my years an' feelin's. (She does.) 

Mrs. S. (with a sigh). Oh, well! you always tuas 
one to see the dark side o' things, an', if you want 
to spoil another body's pleasure, well, you must, 
I s'pose. Listen! There's a cart stopping at the 
house. Susan! Susan! There's someone at the 
door. Run, lass, and see who is is ! (Susan sets off 
for house. The music stops, and all the dancers 
throiv themselves doion exhausted, and fan each 
other.) 

Mrs. A. (Solemnly, dropping her knitting). Look 
you here, Eliza, it's somethin' about my John ; I feel 
it in my bones. P'raps it's to say the regiment 
ain't a-goin' out after all! (Clasps her hands.) Ah! 
I'd thank Heaven, I would, if it was that. 

Mrs. S. Now don't you go persuadin' yourself 
of any such thing, Mary Jane, or you'll only be dis- 
appointed. But what a time the girl is! Robert! 
go you after Susan and see what's the matter. 

Dora. Oh, John ! If it loas a message to say you 
wasn't to go to foreign parts after all ! Ah ! 
wouldn't we all be glad ! 

John (crossly). Glad to spoil a chap's life, an' 
take away what' he's been an' set his heart on? 



44 ''John Arbery's Dream'' 

Well, you won't get the chance, Dora, there ain't 
no fear o' that: we men don't go an' change our 
minds at the last minute, not like a silly girl do ! 

Meg. That's only because you've not got thte sense 
to change 'em even if you want to, for fear of what 
folk would say. So we're not as silly as you,— come 
to that ! 

Rose {getting up). You're all sillies to get quar- 
reling. Here they are coming back ; let's go and see 
who it was at the door! {They all join the mothers 
under the tree.) 

Robert {breathless). It's — the sergeant — says — 
they've 

Mrs. A. {eagerly). Didn't I tell you, Eliza? 

Mrs. S. Go on, Robert ! 

Robert. They-ve had — orders — to start — to-day 
— 'stead o' Saturday — he's got a cart — an' John's got 
to go, now at once ! Susan's a-gettin' down his bag 
an' all. {General cfnorus of ''Oh!"s, etc., etc.) 

Mrs. A. {wailiyig) . Oh, deary-me! Whoever 
heard the like o' that ? My only boy, to be tore away 
from his mother, an' not no time for never a word ! 
{She tveeps.) 

John {patting her shoulder). Come, mother, 
don't take on ! I'll be back again, I will. 

Mrs. A. {still lueeping) . Don't tell me! My only 
boy to be tore away, an' never a word ! 

Mrs. S. Never you mind, Mary Jane! You 
passed the remark yourself as it was a fine thing 
a-goin' out to defend the country. An' so it is, a 
grand thing! Why, when there's soldiers marcWin' 
by, an' a good band playin', I often feel I'd not stick 
at killin' somebody myself, that I do! There's the 
sergeant a-hollerin', John; you'd best get off, boy, 
an' the sooner it's over the better. Good-bye, lad, 
good-bye, and God bless you ! {They all press round 
John, and shake hands, — the7i k\e Jcisses his mother.) 

Mrs. A. {tearfully). Ah, Johnny, it breaks my 
heart, so it do, but you — why, lad, you look as if 
you was glad to go an' leave your poor old mother! 



''John Arbery's -Dream'' . 45 

John (carelessly) , No, no, mother, o' course not: 
how could you go an' think such a thing! But it's 
grand to be goin' out to fight them old Russians. 
There ! he's a-shbutin' again, — I must go. Good-bye, 
mother ! good-bye ! an' take care o' yourself. Good- 
bye! (Faint military music heard. He starts off, 
the others following cheering and tvaving handker- 
chiefs. His mother is still weeping, but she too 
tvaves her handkerchief, Dora is last, having 
stopped to choke back her sobs: she calls after 
him) — John, John! say good-bye again, John! (He 
does not hear, and she begins to run, still calling) — 
John! John! (Her voice dies away in the dis- 
tance) . John ! oh ! John ! 



EPILOGUE. 

(John Arbery awakes, and stretches out his 
arms), *'Ay! hfere I be! did ye call me, Dora? Here 
I be; here's your John !" 

(He rubs his eyes, and appears greatly be- 
tvildered, then stumbles to his feet, and takes a few 
steps, looking this way and that. Church bells and 
cuckoo are heard again, and the sound of whistling, 
and in a moment Thomas Field turns the corner. 
He comes up to old John, tvho looks at him with Uim 
eyes.) 

John, Whtere be my Dora? Have ye seen my 
lass, young man? She were a callin' an' callin' just 
now, an' I can't make out where she be, 

Thomas (good naturedly) , Don't you worry 
about no Dora ! You've been asleep, you have, and 
had a bit of a dream, same as you was wanting to do 
this dinner time. And now you're coming home 
along o' me. (Takes his arm,) 

John (ivith feeble indignation). Dream? It 
warn't no dream, I tell ye I heard her, — as plain as 
I hear them bells . . . — I'm a-comin', Dora! 
I'm a-comin' ! * 



46 ''John Arbery's Dream'' 

Thomas (soothingly). There, there! Come on 
now; we ain't got far to go. (Peals of bells are 
fainter, cuckoo distant.) 

John (in a weak voice). Thankee, thankee! . . 
. Ay ! you're — a — good lad . . . be — that tired ! 
(More feebly). An' it — be gettin' so dark — all of 
a sudden; I can't 'ardly see. . . . Maybe — I'll 
not — be able to see — my Dora ; not to see — my Dora. 

Thomas. No, no! you'll see her soon enough, no 
fear o' that. You're goin' straight to 'er, you are! 

(They disappear throug% the gate, John tottering 
and clinging to Thomas's arm. Bells die away: 

Cuckoo has ceased Hidden voices sing 

''Hard times, come again no more.'') 

* [Alternative ending, — for use on an indoor 
stage, — or in a garden if a curtain can be arranged. 
John in this case tries to get up, but finds himself 
too feeble and sinks back.\ 

Thomas. There, there ! Lay down, an' get you to 
sleep again ! You won't 'ave no need to go to your 
Dora, I'm thinkin' — more like she'll be comin' to 
you. She ain't far off now! (He straightens him- 
self.) 

John (feebly) . Not far? Eh ! I'm glad she b'aint 
far, — I be that tired. An' it be getting so dark, — 
so dark. . . . Maybe I'll not be able to see my 
Dora. (He holds out his arms.) I'll not be able to 
see 'er. (His voice dies away, and his arms drop.) 

Thomas. Never you fear! You'll see 'er plain 
enough. (Bells less faint.) Eh, poor old chap! 
(Stoops and feels John's heart.) I reckon e'es seen 
'er already. God bless 'im! God bless 'im! (Stands 
looking at John: bells peal out.) 

CURTAIN. 



THE P. Gs. 

A FARCE COMEDY. 

Characters: 

Billy Danby, an author. 

Kitty Danby, his wife. 

Dolly Young, her sister. 

Christopher Danby, Billy's brother, a rising bar- 
rister, and trustee to Kitty and Dolly, 

Diana Loveday, a health faddist, and fortune 
hunter. 

Sally Grummitt, a temporary servant, hired in 
haste. 

John Shaw, a watering-place practitioner. 

SCENE I. 

Scene: A sitting room in the Danby s' house at 
Staines. Billy Danby is tvriting, in great 
haste and with a worried expression, at a 
table covered with papers. No sound breaks 
the silence except the squeaking of his quill 
pen and the ticking of a clock, till the clock 
strikes nine. TJten he gives a great start, 
looks at the clock, throws down his pen, 
pushes both hands through his hair, glares 
round wildly, and, after one more look at 
the clock, seizes the pen, and begins to ivrite 
again with feverish energy. 

Kitty (off). Well! don't stay out too late! It's 
getting chilly. 

Billy (rising and gathering his papers together). 
Wm\ . . . Kitty! Well, that's goodbye to any 
more work to-night! 

Kitty (still off). Billy! Billy! Are you very 
busy, Billy, or can I come and talk to you? 

47 



48 The P.Gs. 

Billy {thi^owing all his papers behind the table, 
snatching up a neiospaper, flinging himself into an 
armchair, and assuming an air of unlimited leisure) . 
Busy? No! Come along! Fve nothing to do, and 
was just wishing you'd come in and amuse me a 
bit. {Kitty enters.) I haven't seen too much of 
you lately, you know. 

Kitty. No; you're generally so busy, aren't you? 
I say, this is jolly! Let's be cosy and enjoy our- 
selves! I wonder when the others will come in. 
{Ta.kes up some work.) 

Billy. Oh, never mind about the others! We're 
quite hiappy by our two selves. {Rings the bell) 
Now, tell me how you like d the picnic this after- 
noon ! 

Kitty. Well! I liked it in a way, but I wished 
all the time that you were with us. Why must you 
work so hard at those stuffy papers ? 

Billy. Bread and butter, my dear child, bread and 
butter! And you're rather particular about the 
butte|r, what? {To servant loho has ansivered the 
bell.) Oh! Has the post come in? Just see, will 
you? 

Mary. Yes, sir! 

Billy. These are bad times, you know, Kitty. 

Kitty. Oh! Don't let's talk about bad times! 
Let's think of the good times we're to have when 
your book comes out! I v/ant you to build out a 
room, Billy, that we can keep for dances — do say 
you will! — and then we'll give some parties, and 
wake everybody up. 

Billy {to himself, grimly). H'm. {to Kitty) Well, 
perhaps if there's a great run on my book, and I 
make a big profit, we'll think about it, Kitty. {With 
relief, as the servant appears tvith letters.) Ah, 
letters! {Sorting them.) Kitty, all these for you? 
{They begin to open letters.) 

Kitty. This is an invitation to Maude's wedding. 
Very dull and pokey it'll be. I certainly shan't go. 
Besides, I haven't a rag to go in. . . . Ugh! 



The P,Gs. 49 

Mrs. Hunt's At Home ! Not for me ! . . . Bridge 
Drive at th'e Jones's. No thank you! . . . Ah! 
This is better ! 

Bilhj. What! 

Kitty. An invitation for the Cricket Week at 
Canterbury. Oh, Billy ! that will be lovely ! 

Billy {drily,) But, my dear Kitty, if you haven't 
a rag to go to a wedding in, you certainly can't go 
to a Cricket Week, where you'd want five or six 
rags at least. 

Kitty, Oh, it's quite differejnt; but, of course, 
you're only a man, and wouldn't understand. . . . 
Anyth'ing interesting for you, Billy? 

Billy, I say, that's good! the Kerrs want Chris 
and me to go on an expedition with them, shooting 
in Austria. How would you like that, Kitty, to 
have your old husband go off and leave you all by 
yourself? No, — I don't think I see myself. {Enter 
Chris,) Hullo, Chris! You're just in the nick of 
time. How'd you like to go shooting with the Kerrs 
in Austria? You're invited. 

Chris {moodily). No, tkank you, 

Kitty, Really, Chris? And they actually asked 
Billy too, as if he was a bachelor ! 

Chris, Well, they know he's a crack shot. 
{Abritptly,) Where's Dolly? 

IBilly opens a Utter and tohistles,) 

Kitty {mischievously). She's playing croquet 
with the Smith boys from over the way ! 

Chris, Still? 

Kitty, Yes, with fairy lamps tied to th'e hoops 
to see by. They're all m.ad. 

C/im {crossly). She'll catch her death of cold. 
And why can't those) wretched Smiths go about their 
lousiness? They're always banging round. 

Kitty, Well, poor things, I suppose they want a 
holiday, occasional?/, like the rest of us. ... Oh! 
by the v/ay, thtere's a letter for you, Chris ; here it is. 

Chris, Well, I shall go and see if Dolly mejans 
to come in at all to-night. {Exit,) 



50 The P,Gs. 

Kitty. Poor Chris! He's hopelessly gone! But 
if he's too grandmotherly with Dolly it'll put her off 
altogether. (Catching sight of Billi/s expression.) 
Why, Billy, what's the matter? 

Billy. What's the matter? Everything's the mat- 
ter! Just look at this bill from Guy's Stores, sent 
in to me with an impertinent letter — confoundedly 
impertinent — demanding payment ! How could you 
dream of running up a bill like that? — and brought 
up as you were too! What can you say for your- 
self? 

Kitty, Oh, Billy, I'm sorry! I did ask them to 
wait. How horrid — how odious of them! They 
knew I should pay — they knew — 

Billy {impatiently). Never mind what they 
knew ! How did you come to incur a debt like this, 
when you couldn't pay cash down? That's what I 
want to know. (Furiously) Answer me! 

Kitty. Oh, if you're going to take that tone with 
me I shan't answer at all. How — how 'dare you? 

Billy. How dare I, indeed ! The question is, how 
dare you get into debt, v/hen you knew how I feel 
about it? 

Kitty (springing up). You shan't speak to me 
like that, Billy! I'll sell my trinkets, I can always 
do that ; and the old silver — my share of it — and pay 
that wretched bill — and then I'll go away. 

Billy (drikj) . Don't talk nonsense, Kitty; what's 
the good of tWat? Who wants heroics? That's just 
like a woman! What we want is (ivith provoking 
calm) a little plain common sense. 

Kitty (scornfully). Plain common sense! who 
wants plain common sense? That's just like a man\ 
and I shall sell my trinkets if I choose to; 1 have a 
perfect right. 

Billy (very calmly). You will do nothing of the 
kind, Kitty. I won't hear of it. (Enter Chris, read- 
ing a letter.) 

Kitty (sneering). Oh, indeed! You won't hear 
of it ! And, pray, how will you prevent it? (Pauses, 



The P.Gs. 51 

then, reflectively) , If I don't sell them it will simply 
be because I don't choose, and because I think proper 
to do something else. I shall go to that cottage that 
was left me, at Sidmouth, where no one knows me, 
and where no one has any right to interfere, and 
take paying guests. 

Chris (holding up the letter). Kitty, what's the 
meaning of this ? 

Kitty. Oh, Chris ! you too ? 

Billy. Oh, I say — that's too bad, two to one. 
What's up, Chris? 

Chris (handing over the note and a passbook). 
Just look at this from the bank. (To Kitty) . Were 
you aware that you'd overdrawn your account? 

Kitty. Oh ! I told the Manager not to mention it. 

Chris. Oh, did you? H'm! Deceit as well as 
dishonesty; I see! But, happily, the Manager knew 
his duty and drew my attention to the matter. 
(Examining cheque.) A cheque to yourself for 
£350 — more than your whole income, and leaving 
you £187 in debt to the Bank! 

Billy (looking over the passbook). I say, Kitty, 
what on earth have you done with it? 

Kitty. I decline to say. 

Billy. Nonsense ! you must say. 

Kitty. Must, indeed ! The money's my own, and 
I won't say — Now! 

Chris (sarcastically). H'm! Very fine! especi- 
ally as more than half the money is the Bank's ! 

Billy. Come, don't be a fool, Kitty ! Just tell me 
quietly what you have done with the money ! 

Kitty. I won't ! I told you so, — and I don't mean 
to. 

Billy. Kitty, you must; for till I know all about 
it I shan't lift a finger to help you out of the diffi- 
culty. 

Kitty. And who wants you to? I can get out of 
it myself. I don't want your help. I'm going away, 
as I said, , . • 



52 The P.Gs. 

Billy. Kitty, you're a perfefct idiot ! Of course we 
shall have to get you out of this precious muddle. 

Chris, When she's made a clean breast of it. 

Kitty {scornfully.) Clean breast of it? to you? 
Pah! {turning away, and addressing Billy only.) 
You can say what you please, but Til be beholden 
to neither of you. I shall go to Sidmouth to-morrow, 
and advertise for paymg guests — I don't care a 
scrap whether you like it or not. And {very de- 
liberately, watching for the effect) I shall have 
Diana Loveday; she asked us to let h'ejr come as a 
paying guest last year. 

Billy {springing to his feet) . That woman? She 
shall never enter my house ! 

Kitty. But, you see, it happens not to be your 
house; it's mine! 

Billy. Whether it's my house or yours, I won't 
stand by and see you make such a fool of yourself. 

Kitty. Well, don't stand by! go after your Aus- 
trian game, both of you, and a good thing too ! 

Billy {quietly). You mean that, Kitty? You 
want me to go? 

Kitty. Of course ! pray go, both of you, and the 
sooner the bettetr ! No doubt you will be glad to get 
rid of me. . . . You are going? 

Billy. If you wish it. {Chris bows.) 

Kitty {rushing back.) But oh! take care, Billy! 
don't go into danger! . . . Not that it matters, 
of course . . . but . . . your . . . your — ^ 
publishers couldn't spare you. {Exit in tears.) 

Billy. I needn't tell you I'm not really going, 
Chris. Kitty may be a little fool, but it's only heir 
ignorance. I shall let her think I've gone, of course, 
but really I shall stay near and keep my eye on her, 
poor child. ... I must think of some| plan. But 
you'll go, Chris? There's sure to be splendid sport. 

Chris {angrily, pacing the room) . /go? Hanged 
if I will! It's all very well, Billy, — you may be 
Kitty's husband, but I was left guardian to — ^both 
of them. Just think ! , . . Kitty taking paying 



The P.Gs. 53 

guests, and any bounder coming to the house and 
seeing . . . Til . . . (breaks off, throwing 
himself into a chair.) Lor! / have it! 

{Curtain falls on Chris laughing, and Billy loatch- 
ing him in puzzled surprise,) 



SCENE II. 

Scene: Dining-room in Kitty's cottage at Sidmouth. 

Time: About 9 a. m. The table is laid for 

breakfast. Sally Grummitt is discovered 

dusting the boards. Bell rings and she 

looks out of the windoto. 

Sally. All right, milkman! Wait till I gets yer 

a jug! (Flapping her duster.) Lor How this do 

make) yer back ache ! An' such a waste of time, too ! 

Fust motor-car as comes along, the dust lays on 

everything as bad as ever. An' what a lazy lot they 

are, too! I might 'ave stopped in bed another 'alf- 

hour an' it wouldn't 'ave 'urt. Don't believe there's 

anyone up. (Rubs ivindoio-sill and looks out.) Oh, 

ye^ ! There's that there Miss Loveday, goin' up and 

down like a steam-engine. Well, if she ain't the 

queerest — What? All right! I'm a-coming. (Exit 

hurriedly, throiving doivn duster.) 

(A sound of throat-clearing and shuffling of foot- 
steps is follotved by the sloiv opening of the door, 
and the head of Mr. Anthony Larkins appears. He 
looks around carefully, then throws the door wide 
open and enters briskly. He wears glasses, and car- 
ries a heavy walking -stick. Seating himself at the 
table, he cuts off a bit of bread, and, begins to eat it, 
loudly counting the bites, tvith a marked stammer. 
Hearing footsteps, he rises, hurriedly assumes the 
stoop of age, and limps to the sofa, leaning heavily 
on his stick. He sits dow7i. Dolly enters through 
the ivindoio, tohich she leaves open.) 

Larkins. G — g — good morning, Miss Young ! 



54 The P.Gs. 

Dolly (hastily). Oh, pray don't, Mr. Larkins! 
I wonder if there are any letters for me. (Goes up 
to the table and glances through a pile of letters.) 

Larkins {rising with difficulty). Oo! oo! YouVe 
1— left the w— winder open ! I can't s — sit in such 
a t — t— terrible draught. The) room's 1 — 1 — like an 
ice house. {Turns up his collar and limps to the 
windoiOy lohich he shuts.) And where is our h — 
hostess? Why is she not down to s — see after 
things? {Comes to table and pinches the loaf.) 
What? New bread ! Miss Young, does Mrs. D — d — 
danby not kn — n — now the d — dangers she exposes 
us to? {Hobbles over to bell, tvhich he rings con- 
tinuously, but ivhich gives no sound after the first 
peal.) If I were) to t— tell you {turning round) 
the effect that new bread has on one's d — digestive 
organs — 

Dolly {hastily). Oh. pray don't, Mr. Larkins! 
Here; I'll make you some toast. {She cuts slices of 
bread, and begins to toast them.) 

Enter Sally What's wanted ? 

Larkins. Here, c— c — confound you ! Why the 
d — dickens didn't you come at once? Doesn't the 
c — confounded b — bell ring? 

Sally {defiantly) . 'Taint likely it would, with me 
a-'anging on to 'tother end of it for all I was worth. 
I'd a bin stone deaf by now if I 'adn't. Whafs 
toanted? 

Larkins {angrily). What's wanted! Every- 
thing's wanted! {Glaring at breakfast table.) It's 
all p — poison -here— p — poison, I tell you. Bring 
me s — something I can eat! 

Sally. Poison ? An' you dare to accuse Sally 
Grummitt of putting poison in yer food? I'll have 
the law of yer, I will ! Poison, 'e says ! 

Dolly {turning round from the fire). Oh, don't 
be silly ! Mr. Larkins only means it's poison to him, 
because he can't digest it. Go and get the Plasmon 
biscuits. 



J 



The P.Gs. 55 

Sally (scornfully). Biscuits for breakfast! Why 
can't 'e eat like a Christian, same as the r6>st of us? 
(Exit, flouncing. Enter Diana Loveday.) 

Diana. Pouf! — phew! How horribly stuffy! 
Morning, Dolly ! morning, Mr. Larkins ! Ugh ! Let's 
get some air blowing ! ( Throivs open tvindoios, and 
strides up to table.) I say, no porridge ! Look here ! 
I can't begin the day without porridge. (Rings, and 
stands rubbing her hands.) 

Larkins. Miss L — Loveday; I must beg you to 
sh- — shut that winder, if you don't w — want to k — 
kill me! (Shivers violently.) 

Sally (enters loith biscuit tin). 'Ere's yer plaster 
biscuits, sir. (Bangs tin doivn on table.) 

Diana. Biscuits? Wei don't want biscuits. 
What's the good of dried-up, chippy things like 
those? We want porridge,, Sally, porridge! Quick! 
And bring some purified cane sugar, too! Hurry 
up! Bless the woman! (Turns to ivindow and, per- 
forms athletic exercises in front of it. Sally ivatches 
her, giggling.) 

Larkins. Well; if you d — don't value my life. 
Miss Loveday, I must take c — carel of it myself. I 
— I — m — mean to d — disappoint my heirs a 1 — little 
longer. (Exit, returning immediately, struggling 
into an overcoat.) 

Diana (looking round, but continuing her exer- 
cises) . Where's the porridge? What are you stand- 
ing thetre staring for, woman ? 

Sally. ''Woman?" Well, I never! No one's ever 
been and called me ''woman" before! If I ain't 
spoke civil, I don't do anything. So Jones can wait 
on the pair on yer; / ain't a-going to. (As she goes 
out.) Jones where are yer? Come on and take 
your share of the work ! 

Jones (off). What's the matter now? Always 
grumbling, you are. You go on and dish up that 
bacon. (Enters loith tray of coffee, etc.) 

Dolly (bringing toast to table). Here, Mr. Lar- 
kins ! This toast "is beautifully hot and couldn't hurt 



56 The P.Gs. 

a fly. Now, do eat it! {Butters it). 

Larkins. Ah! m — many thanks, my d — dear 
young lady ! and now will you do me thfe; f — further 
favour of sprinkling a little P — plasmon p — p — 
powder over it? (Dolly does so.) 

Diana. Jones, what's the time? 
Jones (arranging coffee, etc.). Twenty past nine. 
Miss. 

Diana. Well, how long have I been at my exelr- 
cises, then? 

Jones. Dunno, Fm sure, Miss (muttering) or 
care. 

DioMa. Because if you go on too long it's as bad 
as if you didn't do 'em at all. 

Larkins (eating). You have certainly — 1 — b — 
been — 2 — long €|nough ; and I f — find — 3 — it most 
dis — t — turbing. Miss Loveday; — 4 — kindly desist, 
and — 5 — s — shut the winder. (Glares at Diana's 
back, and knocks stick on floor.) 

Diana (calmly) . Oh, of course ! It was Sally who 
was in here when I began. Where has 'she got to? 
Growing the oats for the porridge, I should tMnk, 
by the time| she is I Nice house this is, to pay two 
guineas a week to stay in ! 

Larkins. Kindly — 14 — be s^ — s — silent; I cannot 
hear — 15— myself speak — 16 — I belong, as I — 17 — 
thought I had told you — 18 — to the ch — ch — ch — 19 
— Chfe|vving Club — 20 — and I have to bite every 
mouthful — 21 — thirty times — 22 — and count every 
— 23 — bite — 24, 25, — gulp — 26, etc. (continues up 
to 30, ivhich he brings out ivith great triumph.) 

Jones (muttering). Go it, old man, but don't 
choke yourself! (places chairs round table.) 
(aloud.) 'Ere, sir, 'ave yer skull cap, and I'll shut 
the winder, sir (hands cap from sideboard.) Allow 
me. Miss ! The Doctor's givel strick orders Mr. Lar- 
kins ain't to 'ave much air, so 'e tells me. Miss ; and 
I'm a-goin' to carry 'em out, / am ! (Essays to shut 
loindow.) 



The P.Gs. 57 

Diana. Don't be impertinent, Jones! and leave 
that window alone ! And if your wife doesn't bring 
up that porridge 

Jones. My wife, Miss? (nudging Larkins.) 
Melaning Sally, Miss? She ain't my wife. Fm only 
a tempory butler, I am, hired for the season, like. 
And, if you'll excuse me, Miss, Sally ain't anyways 
the sort of wife I shbuld a-chosen. I likes a bit o' 
peace an' quiet, / do. 

Diana (heatedly). And / like a bit of porridge) 
when I ask for it ! I don't care whether she's your 
wife or not? You go and tell her I'll get her dis- 
missed if she doesn't bring it up directly! (Stamps 
her foot. Jones exit, grinfiacing: Sally enters with 
porridge.) 

Larkins. This t — toast — 20 — is d — d — delicious 
—21— Miss Young —22—23— Ah! here's that con 
— f — founded porridge — 24 — now I suppose there'll 
be —25— a little p— peace —26—27—28— gulp 
—29—30 ! 

Diana (seating herself ivith great clatter). Well, 
at last! Hope you've been long enough', Sally! 
Might have made porridge for a whole orphanage! 
— Ugh! smoked! 

Sally. Smoke's very 'ealthy, Miss — the doctors '11 
all tell ye|r that. 

Diana (pushing hack her chair). Disgusting! 
It's too bad! I shall be starved if I go on like this. 
What are you laughing at, Dolly? Where's the dog? 
Whtere's any dog? Here! Rover! Fido! 

Dolly '(laughing helplessly) . Oh! we haven't got 
a dog! 

Diana. More shame for you ! Anyone who keeps 
a bad cook ought to keep a dog too, to eat her messes. 
Then the only thing to do is to burn it. (Rises, 
scraping the porridge together, and throws it into 
fire.) i nelver allow a servant to see any waste of 
mine. 

(Enter Kitty, slondy, absorbed in a fashion 
paper.) 



58 The P.Gs. 

Diana (loudly). Kitty, why do you keep such an 
intolerable cook? 

Kitty (looking up). Good morning, everybody! 
Isn't it a lovely day? (Rings,) Why do I whteit, 
Diana? Look here, Dolly! This coat would suit 
you perfectly. (Leans over Dolly, ivho studies the 
paper ivith her,) 

Diana (at the table again), I said, why do you 
keep such a beast of a cook? I'd send her packing 
at an hour's notice if she was mine. 

(Enter Jones.) 

Kitty, Oh, Jonels, just bring me some fresh bacon, 
please ! This is so cold and nasty. 

Jones, Yes, Mum. (Exit), 

LarJcins (perceiving the smell of Diana's porridge 
in the fire). Oh'! what a h — h^ — horrible smell! 
Ugh, ugh ! What a n — nasty t — trick. And I have 
lost c — count of my ch — chewing, and shall have 

to b — b — begin again! I am 1 — surprised at 

you —2— Miss Loveday —3—4 — 5. etc. 

Diana (drinking off a cup of tea at a draught). 
And I'm surprised at you, making yourself a nui- 
sance to everybody w^ith your — 1 — 2 — (gidp) 3 — 
(gidp) — 4! I'll trouble you to ivhisper your bites 
in future ; then there'll be a chance for other folk to 
hear the sound of thteir own voices. 

Larkins (angrily and stammering very much). 
It's better to make noises than such a c — c — con- 
founded bad smell ! 

Diana, Stuff and nonsense! Just give me an- 
other cup, will you, Kitty? No, you, Dolly. Kitty's 
dreaming, as usual. Tzk! tzk! tzk! 

Kitty (vaguely). Oh no! I'm all right. (Hold- 
ing the teapot aloft, she pours a steady stream over 
the cloth and milk jug — still reading.) 

Dolly (springing up). Oh, Kitty, you pig! Look 
what you're doing ! Here! Give it to me! (Seizes 
teapot and rings hell; then calls for a duster,) 

Kitty (starting). Oh, I'm so sorry ! How stupid 
of me! (General uproar, Sally enters luith duster. 



The P.Gs. 59 

Exeunt Kitty and Dolly, Larkins retreats to a sofa, 
— Diana to a chair.) 

Sally (slopping up tea) . Of all tlte 'orrid messes ! 
I ain't a-going to stop here, Mr. Jones, and so I tells 
yer. There's no rest for the soles of my boots, so 
there ain't! And it isn't the kinds of goings-on that 
I've been used to. Just look at 'er, now. (Exit.) 

Diana (to Jones, — practising deep breathing, and 
sitting rigidly on her chair). Look sharp with your 
work! You disturb me at my breathing exercises. 
No! I'll go to the other room. You come, too, Mr. 
Larkins! I'll show you how to do them. Make a 
new man of you ! Come along ! 

Jones (as Larkins follotos Diana out) . Chee^ oh ! 
Chris! Nice little tete-a-tete with the fair Diana, 
what? (To Sally, as she re-enters.) Well, she do 
'ave some queer ways, together, don't she? She'd 
ought to breathe by the light of nature, same as me, 
or any other Christian body. But, between you an' 
me, if she was to stop breathing altogether it 
wouldn't upset me a great lot. A most onnatural 
female, I calls 'er! Wants a good strick 'usband, 
she do, to knock som^e sense into 'er 'ead. It's whisit 
you want, too, if I ain't mistaken, Mrs. Sally ! 

Sally (tossing her head). Oh! I'm not one for 
'usbands, unless they're something quite out of the 
common ; I don't 'old with men, not as a rule. But 
(archly) 'ow is it you ain't suited yerself, Mr. Jones? 

Jones. Ah! you're all alike, you women — all the 
same ; so curous ! You take my advice, and stick to 
what concerns you, young woman ! 

Sally. Well, certainly that don't, Mr. Jones. If 
you've fifty wives, it's nothing to me. But most like 
you've never been able to get anyone to look at you 
— with that face! More like a old gollowog than 
anythink, yoit are. (Bell.) Ow! There's that 
dratted doorbell! (Exit.) 

(Enter Diana and Larkins.) 

Diana. No peace anywhere! Never saw such a 
house! Why can't Kitty and Dolly practice their 



60 The P.Gs. 

wretched squalling later in the day ? Now, look here, 
Mr. Larkins, you draw in a long breath — so ! 

LarJcins {grimacing at Jones), Ex-actly so! 

Diana, And then you exhale it — so! 

Larkins, H — h — anged if I will! If it's to take 
all that trouble to get a breath — I'll s — stick to it 
when I've got it. 

Diana, But you don't understand the science of it, 
thte wonderful sciencel. What's the good of anything, 
if you don't know how to preserve the vital spark? 
Now I'll show you Dr. Bright's little work on "Deep 
Breathing." {They retire to the sofa.) 

{Enter Kitty and Dolly, folloiued by Sally, carry- 
ing some cardboard boxes,) 

Kitty. Put th€(m down, Sally! Now, Dolly, let's 
have a look at these ! 

Dolly. But, Kitty dear, you really ought to order 
lunch. Do attend to that first ! 

Kitty, Lunch? Oh, never mind lunch! We've 
only just done breakfast, and I must look at these 
hats. 

Dolly, Well, look here ! You tell met wh'at you'll 
have for lunch, and I'll write it down! {Takes up 
pencil and paper.) 

Kitty. Yes, all right! Oh, that's rather nice! 
Jones, bring me a looking-glass, will you? {Jones, 
toho is clearing the table, obeys.) 

Dolly {rapping luith pencil). There's the cold 
beef : we'd better have that done up somehow. 

Kitty. Yes, it would go admirably with my blue 
frock, wouldn't it, Dolly? 

Dolly. Shephterd's Pie? 

Kitty. No,— not the shepheti^d's plaid— I said the 
blue one. 

Dolly {incisively) . I said — shall — the — beef — be 
— made — into — shepherd's — pie ? 

Kitty {vaguely). Oh, yes, I think so! And I like 
this one, but it wants trimming with a different 
colour, don't you think? 

Dolly. Rhubarb? 



The P.Gs. 61 

Kitty. Oh, no ! molehcolour, perhaps. 

Dolly. Oh, Kitty, you're hopeless ! 

Diana. Bless thte woman! Better let me order 
lunch. . . . Hate your hashed up messes ! Give 
me good wholesome nuts, and peas and belans. 

Larkins. Beans ? With the g — greatest p — pleas- 
ure! 

Diana. What? 

Larkins. Oh! N — nothing! N — nothing at all! 

{Bell rings.) 

Dolly. Who can it be? 

(Jones exit to hall. Kitty and Dolly make a very 
half-hearted attempt to clear the floor.) 

Jones (announcing). Dr. Shaw. 

Kitty. Oh! Good morning, Dr. Shaw! (They 
shake hands: Shaiv shoivs throughout obvious ad- 
miration for Kitty.) 

Shaw. Good morning. Miss Loveday. Fve just 
come over, as you asked me 

Kitty. Oh, Fm not Miss Loveday. Diana, you 
didn't tell me you w€|re expecting Dr. Shaw. 

Diana. How do you do. Dr. Shaw? Why, Kitty! 
I thought you knew by this time tWat I always put 
myself in the hands of the local doctor thtel min- 
ute I get to a new place. 

Shaw. An excellent practice. 

Larkins (sotto voce). For the doctor! 

Kitty. Would you like to go into the| drawing- 
room? 

Diana. Bless you, no ! (Putting out her tongue) . 
Well, doctor, how's the tongue? 

Shaw. Ah, pretty bad. Miss Loveday, pretty bad ! 
Let me feel your pulse. (Feels pulse, but has eyes 
only for Kitty.) Yes! Fm glad you called me in in 
time ; you want a thorough toning-up. 

Larkins. H — have a 1 — look at me, doctor, will 
you ? whten you've done with her. 

Shaw (taking out watch) . Celrtainly — certainly! 
(To Diana, but watching Kitty). Yes, — the pulse 
is very unsteady, very unsteady : no cause for alarm, 



62 The I\Gs. 

but care needed, and watchfulness. Yes, I must 
send something round for you to take, and {looking 
at Kitty) Fll look in to-morrow and see how you're 
getting on. Thank you ! thank you ! Now, sir ! {He 
feels Larkins' pulse and inspects his tongue. Exit 
Dolly, giggling.) 

Kitty {turning round from glass). How do you 
like this everybody? 

Diana. Outlandish! You'd be mobbed in the 
street. 

Shaiu {forsaking Larkins ivith a gesture, dismiss- 
ing his ailments as nothings) . If you will pardon 
the liberty, / think it ravishing — quite ravishing. 

Kitty. That's very nice of you. Dr. Shaw. Fll 
keep that one anyhow. Diana, you're no judge of 
millinery. {lo Shaiv) . I'm afraid I must run 
away now, good-bye! 

Shatv. Ah, good-bye! and {looking ivith distaste 
at Diana and Larkins) I'm just off too. {Exit Kitty.) 
Good-bye, Miss Loveday ! I'll look in to-morrow about 
the same time. Good-morning, sir! {Exit.) 

Diana. Now for a toddle. Come with me, Mr. 
Larkins : it'll do you good. 

Larkins {grimacing hideously behind her hack). 
Ex-actly so! But I walk si — si — slowly; m — more 
accustomed to d — driving, don't you know? 

Diana {eagerly). Very well off, then? 

Larkins {smiling). Ex-actly! 

Diana. Ah well ! we'll take it easy. 

{Exeunt, Larkins prancing and grimacing he- 
hind Diana) . 

{Enter Sally] carrying a tea caddy, and singing 
raucously. She drops th\e song and the caddy on see- 
ing the hats). Oh my! ain't they splendid? 'Ere! 
Mr. Jones! Wouldn't I look a duchess in a 'at like 
this? {Puts on a hat on the top of her cap and looks 
in the gl^^ss.) 'Ow, I forgot my cap! {Takes it 
off) and my face ain't as clean as it might be. 

Jones {who has followed her). Well, that don't 
make much odds ! You'd look a sight anyway ! 



« 



The P.Gs. 63 

Sally {tidies on a picture hat). Ah! that suits 
me down to the ground, that do, throws a becoming 
shadder, and 'ides the smuts a bit. 

Jones. You stow it, Sally, or Til tell the mistress : 
see if I don't. 

Sally. You mind your own business, Mr. Jones! 
Fm only putting the 'ats away. Left all over the 
place, they was. {Claps toque on his head.) 'Ows 
that suit your style o' beauty, eh ? 

Jones. You impudent hussy ! Put them 'ats back, 
or ril get you sacked, as sure as eggs is eggs ! 

Sally. Go on, yer great sawney! Cooks don't 
grow on every bush, as you'd oughter know by this 
time. {Impressively.) If I was to leave 'ere, there's 
'undreds of families 'd go down on their bended 
knees to 'ave me. 

Kitty {off). 'Sally, Sally! 

Jones. There yer are! You'd a bin caught in a 
minute — and served you right too. 'Ere! Shove 
'em in quick, and let's get 'em into the 'all! {They 
collect the hats hurriedly.) 

Sally. I'm a-comin', Mum! I'm a-comin'! 
{Exeunt.) 

CURTAIN. 



SCENE III. 

Scene: As before. Time, six days later, about 5 
p. m. Larkins is reading a paper in an arm- 
chair — Kitty ivatering plants — and Dr. 
Shaw standing near, watching her, — ob- 
viously anxious to get rid of Larkins. 
Sh^w. Yes, I'm really proud of my patients, 
quite proud of them. {Turns and slaps Larkins on 
the back.) We'll have you a well man in no time, 
sir, — you're getting on splendidly. {Impressively, 



64 The P,Gs. 

and ivith increasing emphasis). But there's one 
thing you ought to have, and that is more exercise 
— regular exercise, out-of-door elxercise ! {Jones 
enters and fusses about at the sideboard, wakching 
Kitty and the Doctor.) Now {taking Larkins play- 
fully by the arm), let me recommend you to have 
some straight away, — best thing in the world afteir 
tea ! Ten minutes' steady exercise up and down the 
verandah' — come ! 

Larkins {perceiving his object). Ah! but I d — 
don't feel up to it t — to-day. Doctor. 

Shaw {annoyed) . Not up to it? Nonsetnse! Ah! 
I'm afraid we're lazy — that's what it is! Come 
now! 

Larkins. It almost 1 — 1 — looks as if you w — 
w^anted to g — get rid of me ! 

Shaw {exasperated). Nonsense! {Goes up to 
Kitty). If you'll pardon me, Mrs. Danby {loiver- 
ing his voice) you're not looking quite the thing 
this elvening; and with all this influenza about, you 
know, one mustn't trifle with even the slightest 
trouble. Let me feel your pulse — may I? {takes 
her hand) And if I might h'ave a word or two — 

Jones {who has shown signs of great restiveness, 
and drawn gradually nearer to Shaiv, now speaks 
aggressively). Excuse me, sir, but there's some 
boys 'anging about and meddling with your car; 
you'd best be after 'em sir. 

Kitty. Jonels! what do you mean? Go at once, 
and send them off yourself! I never heard of such 
a liberty! Come, Dr. Shaw, we'll go into the other 
room, where we can see the motor from the window. 
{Exeunt.) 

Larkins. Poor fellow! He doesn't know wh!at's 
in store for him! J — jones! bring me my cordial 
d — directly ! Lor, Billy, I do love to make you skip ! 
{Exit Jones) . Oh, I'd give a year of my life to take 
off the^e confounded whiskers! {He sits down. 
Jones re-appears ivith glasses.) 



The P.Gs, 



65 



Jones. Here's your drink, old chap; and Fm 
jolly well going to have some myself too. {Does 
so, throvnng himself into a chair.) 

Larkins. Look here, Billy! I want to tell you 
I've made up my mind to propose to Dolly. 

Jones. Weill, youVe made up your mind to do that 
a good many times before, haven't you ? But you've 
always funked it in the end. 

Larkins. Yes! because if she were to refuse me, 
in my position as trustee), and so forth, it would be 
a deuced awkward situation ; impossible one, in fact. 
I've often told you so. 

Jones. Well, but the situation isn't changed now, 
is it? 

Larkins. No, but look here. I'm not going to 
propose to h'er as Christopher Danby, but as A — A 
— Anthony L — L — Larkins, don't you know? Of 
course, she'll refusel me with disgust, but it's just 
possible I might find out how the land lies for the 
other thing. I'm going to propose straight away. 
I wouldn't stand this business much longer. Do you 
know, that woman Diana has been making up to 
me all the week? 

Jones. And do you know that confounded doctor 
— that insoleint young puppy — has been making up 
to Kitty? — to my wife, Chris! Feeling hter pulse, 
indeed ! I'd like him to feel the toe of my boot ! 

Larkins. Oh, yes, I saw it all, old boy, and I've 
been wondering when you'd boil over. Hullo, thelre's 
someone coming! It's Dolly. Now do get out, 
there's a good fellow, and take your glass with you ! 
(Exit Jones; enter Dolly.) 

Dolly. Hullo, Mr. Larkins! having something to 
buck you up? (Sits dotvn opposite him.) Do you 
know I think youVe really got be tter since you came 
here? 

Larkins. B — better, n — no, — w — worse: I've — 
I've — I've got something on my mind. 

Dolly. Oh, have you? Is it anything I could help 
you in, do you think? 



66 The P.Gs, 

Larkins. Ex-actly so; I have f-- — —fallen in 1 — 
1 — love ! 

Dolly, Fallen in love? Oh how fun — — I mean, 
how romantic! And have you proposed yet? 

Larkins. N — no! Tm afraid she m — might re- 
fuse me,-^and I'm an old f — fellow — and I c — c — 
couldn't get over it, you know. 

Dolly, Oh, poo7^ Mr. Larkins! But you're not 
so very old after all. 

Larkins, Ah — but r — relatively to the fair one, 
Miss Young. 

Dolly. Oh, but some girls like marrying older, 
men. For my part, I can't imagine how any girl can 
marry as young as she is, or younger. A husband 
should be at least {considers) ten years older than 
his wife. I think. 

Larkins, Oh ! Then you w — w — wouldn't marry 
a 1 — lad of twenty? 

Dolly, Oh, no, of course not ! I shouldn't dream 
of it. 

Larkins. You w — would prefer someone older? 

Dolly, Yes, indeed! But who is the lady, Mr. 
Larkins? Do I know her? 

Larkins, You know her b — better than anyone 
else could, be — c — cause you are 

Dolly {springing up, horror-struck). Oh, not 
me? You don't mean me? 

Larkins. Ex-actly ! 

Dolly, Oh, how dreadful! Oh, how ridiculous! 
Really, Mr. Larkins, I couldn't! How could you 
think of such a thing? 

Larkins, But you s — said you p — preferred older 
men 

Dolly, Oh, yes! but — but, yes, — but 



Larkins. You think me ec — centric? 

Dolly, Oh, no, of course not ! — only — only 

Larkins, You d — d — despise me? {Covers his 
face and groans.) 



The P.Gs. 67 

Dolly (running to him). Oh, no, Mr. Larkins! 
I've got — got — quite fond of you but — Oh! what 
can I say? 

Larkins. T — tell me the ex — act truth ! 

Dolly. Well, then I — I — love— someone else. 
(Rising and turning away). But you must never 
tell anyone, — not a soul ! 

Larkins. And d — does he 1 — 1 — love you? 

Dolly. Oh, I don't know! (sighs). Sometimes 
I feel certain he does, and then, sometime 's — but he 
can't really, or surely he'd say so. 

Larkins. Perhaps h — he's af — fraid of being — 
refused, too. 

Dolly. Oh, no! It can't be that, — for he must 
know — why! he's known us all our lives — he looks 
after all our business. 

Larkins (starting up). Dolly! Then it is I! 

Dolly (starting hack). What — at? Chris? 

Chris (a la Ijarkins) . Ex — actly so! 

Dolly. Then it was you, all the time? But how 
could it be? And, oh! how mean of you! Oh! if 
only I'd known! 

Chris. Ah! But you didn't know, Dolly! And 
you really love your old Chris, and nobody else? 

Dolly. Yes, of course! But (looking towards 
door) oh! Chris, do be careful! I'm sure some- 
one's coming. And (drawing back) I really couldn't 
with that dreadful old beard. 

Chris (preparing to remove his disguise). 
Bother the beard! Oh! but here is someone com- 
ing — I say, let's hide in the conservatory. CExeunt. 
Jones enters, and puts away silver in the sideboard. 
Kitty and Shaiv enter by the other door. Jones is 
hidden from them by the screen, and cannot leave 
the room without comirig out where they can see 
him. ) , 

Kitty. Well, Fm dreadfully sorry. Dr. Shaw. I'm 
afraid I've been very careless and foolish, but I 
never thought, never dreamed of such a thing! 

Dr, Shaiu, What? Couldn't you se^^.? 



68 The P.Gs. 

Kitty. No. You see I know so well myself that 
rm not a widow, I forgot other people mightn't! 
. . . But you'll soon get over it. Just think! 
you Ve only known me a week ! 

Dr. Shnw {moodily) . A week or a year, — where's 
the differelnce? 

Kitty {persuasively). Oh, but there is! And 
you must forget me just as quickly. ... I have 
the best husband in the world, Dr. Shaw, but we — 
we quarrelled. 

Dr. Shaw. Oh! quarrelled? 

Kitty. Yes! He| thought Fd been extravagant, 
and I was too proud to explain. So you see {smil- 
ingly) I should be a bad bargain even if I were free, 
shouldn't I? 

Shaw {gravely). I don't think so. 

Kitty. Oh, yes, I should ! But we needn't argue 
about that. You must And someone much nic€(r 
than I am, and be as happy as you deserve. . . . 
Goodbye Dr. Shaw! . . . 

Dr. Shaw {grasping her handy and looking into 
her eyes). Goodbye. ... . I'm vetry sorry. . . . 
joodbye! {Exit Dr. Shaiv.) 

{Kitty strolls across to the table, picks up a hooky 
and begins to read.) 

Jones {appearing round screen) . So I'm the best 
husband in the world, am I, Kitty? 

Kitty. Billy ! ! Billy ! ! You,— Billy! But 
— are you Jones? I mean, was Jones you? 

Billy {boiving). The late Mr. Jones, at your 
service ! 

Kitty. Oh! And you were listening! 

Billy. Well, I couldn't help hearing, of course: 
thetre I was caught like a rat in a trap, and couldn't 
get away. And you really thought I'd go and leave 
you to your own devices, poor little thing? Not I! 
So I answered your advertisement for a servant, and 
I was in a blue funk lest you shouldn't take me. But 
I knew what a warm little helart you had, so I 
thought the appeal in my letter would fetch you. 



The P.Gs. 69 

And it did, didn't it? (With a change in his voice). 
But I say, you might have let that poor chap know 
you'd got a husband fooling around somewhere. 

Kitty. Well, but hbw could I imagine he was 
going to propose? — and beforel I had known him a 
week, too! 

Billy (sombrely, a la Shaw). **A week or a 
year, — where's the difference?" / soon saw which 
way the wind blew! Poor fellow! Well, never 
mind ! But look here, Kitty, I know all about that 
money now. Lor' ! Just a loan to a good-for-noth- , 
ing brother, — and we thought it had all gone in ball 
gowns and hats and goodness knows what! But 
why didn't you ask me to help the silly ass? 

Kitty. Oh, I couldn't! You were so frightfully 
worried just then about your netw book, — I really 
couldn't bother you. 

Billy. Well, it's all right now, isn't it? And 
Jackson's have given me splendid terms for the 
book. I heard from them this morning. So now 
Chris and I will chuck up our beastly disguises. 

Kitty. Chris? Chris? What on earth has Ch*ris 
got to do with it? He's in Austria. 

Billy. Oh! is he, indeed? In Austria! What 
price! good old Anthony Larkins a-chasing of the 
bold bad bear? 

Kitty. What — at? Anthony Larkins! . • . 
You don't mean to say . . . ? {Laughing.) 
Anthony Larkins! Oh dear! Oh dear! . . . 
{Laughing.) I shall never get ovet it! {Laughs, — 
peal after peal. Then — recovering herself) — Then 
of course now / can chuck the P.G's and go home). 
And give Sally notice! By the way, Billy, how could 
you stand Sally? 

Billy. You can stand a good deal when you've 
a little wife to take care of, Kitty. But, I say, 
here's Diana! {He removes his whiskers, etc.) 
You get away, and I'll interview her. What a shock 



70 The P.Gs. 

she'll have ! She thinks Fve gone to Austria. {Exit 
Kitty; enter Diana.) 

Diana (off). Never saw such a house for not be- 
ing able to find anyone. Where on earth they all get 
to I can't think! (Enters.) What? William? I 
thought you we,re hundreds of miles away. (They 
shake hands.) 

Billy, Yes, but you see I heard you were here, 
and of course I posted back so as not to miss you. 

Diana. And has Christopher come back too? 

Billy. Oh, come! I'm not responsible for my 
brother, you know. Can't tell you anything about 
him. (Sitting down.) Where's everybody? 

Diana. That's just what / want to know. Kitty, 
I suppose, idling somewhere. I can tell you it's 
high time you came back and looked after her. And 
Sally's nowhere to be found; probably gossiping 
with the postman in the road. Jones has disap- 
peared, too — gone to a publichouse most likely, 
though* Kitty's such a fool she won't believe they're 
all rascals together. 

Billy. Now don't you be so uncharitable, Diana! 
How do you know (with a ivink unnoticed by Diana) 
poor Jones didn't go to meet his wife? 

Diana. Faugh ! — wife ! what nonsense 1 He 
hasn't got one, so far as I'm aware. And Mr. Lar- 
kins has vanished too. 

Billy (carelessly). Who's Larkins? 

Diana (smiling complacently). A very pleasant 
old gentleman staying here. 

Billy (smiling also). Got a fortune, Diana? 

Diana. I fail to see why you ask that, William, 
unless out of ill nature. He is rather infirm at 
present 

Billy (jumping up) . Then he can't have run far: 
I expect I can hunt him up for you. (Going to door, 
turns back.) But I say, Diana, you'll have to be 
looking out for other quarters, you know, for I'm 
going to take my wife home. I'm not going to have 
her taking P.G's — not likely ! ! here she is ! (Exit, 



The P.Gs. 71 

ivhistling. Enter Kitty,) Well, Diana, weren't 
you surprised to see Billy? Find him pretty cheer- 
ful? 

Diana. Detestable as € v^er ! Certainly the most 
disagreeable man of my acquaintance. What you 
can ever have seen in him I can't imagine. An 
author, too, living from hand to mouth! Now An- 
thbny Larkins, with an established income, what 
a different picture! Of course he's full of fads 
and fancies, but a strong-minded wife could easily 
knock them out of him. 

Kitty, Are you going to undertake the task? 

Diana (bridling), I think Mr. Larkins feels how 
good it would be for him — {suddenly seeing Sally, 
tvho has entered slotvly, reading the postcards 
among the correspondence she is bringing in, and 
has just come to a standstill, quite absorbed), Sally! 
How dare you? What do you mean by such con- 
duct? 

Sally {starting violently), Ow! I — I — I wasn't 
sure one of 'em wasn't for me, miss. 

Diana {contemptuously). Don't tell lies! It 
doesn't improve matters. And the letters ought to 
have been here an hour ago. I suppose you were 
gossiping with the postman, and hindering him in 
his duties. 

Sally. Me gossip? I always minds my own busi- 
ness, / do. 

Diana. Yes ! That's what you were doing as you 
came in, wasn't it? Is that for me? {Takes a let- 
ter, — looks surprised at the handivriting , — and 
reads ivith an expression of growing satisfaction.) 

Kitty. Sally, don't be impertinent! Go to the 
kitchen ! 

Sally {loith a grimace at Diana). I'm going', 
mum; never fear! 

Kitty {seeing a fatuous smile on Diana's face). 
What have you got there, Diana? 

Diana. A propo — ; Ahem ! A letter from Geoffrey 
Dean — dear old Geoffrey, after all these years ! 

Kitty. Oh ! do let me he ar it ! 



n The P.Gs. 

Diana (reading). 
''Dear Diana, 

''It is a long time since I heard of you, but I 
hope you are very fit and well. I have a very 
flourishing Hydro here, which pays me moder- 
atehj well. My patients are all comfortably off, 
and do not 'worry me unduly. But a wife who 
would take the household cares on her shoulders 
would be a great help to me. How would you 
fancy the post? We always went straight to thte 
point, you and I, so I make no apology for my 
manneir of putting it, — ^but let me know at once! 
You know what I am, — so I will not waste good 
ink and paper in telling you; and I know what 
you ivere, not so long ago, and it's fifty to one 
against your ever changing. But, if you won't 
change your ways, you might change your name ; 
and what do you think of 'Diana Dean'? 

Yours ever, 

"Geoffrey." 

How like Geoffrey! How jitst like Geoff re|y! 

Kitty. "Pays him moderately well!" Only 
moderately! I don't like that. No, Diana! If I 
could anyhov/ land the Larkins salmon I wouldn't 
bother about a little minnow like Geoffrey, — though 
he might do possibly, — faute de mienx. (Larkins is 
heard coughing,) Ah! There's Mr. Larkins coming, 
so I'll leave the coast clear! (Exit.) 

Diana (as Chris enters). Do take pity on me, 
Mr, Larkins! I'm alone (ogling). 

Chris. Ex-actly so! 

Diana (patting sofa). Come and sit here, Mr. 
Larkins, I'm. feeling ratheir down, and perhaps you 
could cheer me up a little; 

Chris. Certainly! (sitting doivn heavily.) With 
the g — greatest p — pleasure ! 

Diana. You know, I used to like being alone, — 
but notv, somehow, (sighs) I don^t care for it. 

Chris. Ex-actly so! 



The P.Gs. 73 

Diana. In fact, I think it's bad for one| to be 
alone, — don't you ? 

Chris. Ex-actly so ! 

Diana. Vm sure you dislike being alone yourself, 
Mr. Larkins? 

Chris. Ex-actly so. 

Diana. You are well off, of course, I know; but 
riches, with no one to share thtem — (sighing 
deeply). 

Chris. Vm afraid you m — must have in — d — 
digestion, you s — s — sigh so! 

Diana. Oh, no! it isn't that: it's — er — heart, 
Mr. Larkins. 

Chris. Oh! He|art! I'm h — h — heartily glad to 
hear it (chuckles). 

Diana. Glad? You mistake what I said — 

Chris. P — pardon me. Miss L — Loveday, but the 
m — mistake is yours! 

Diana. Mine? Wh!at are you talking about? 

Chris. Yes, y — yours — exactly! yours! You've 
mistaken the year. This is n — not leap year. 

Diana (springing to her feet). How dare you? 
Do you mean to insult me? Do you insinuate — ? 

Chris (toho has risen also). I in — insinuate 
nothing; I m — merely rec — commend you to take 
your 1 — little heart af — f — fection elsewhere! 

Diana. Els( where ! I should think so ! The same 
roof shall not shelter us both another hour ! I leave 
instantly, you rude, Kateful, intolerable creature — 
horrid, insulting brute! 

Chris. C — c — calm yourself! I shall t — tell no 
one of your 1 — little m — mistake about the year. 

Diana. Mistake ? It's you that are making the 
mistake! I'd have you to know that I received an 
offer of marriage this very day from an old friend — 
a man, worthy of the name, not a hypochondriacal 
worm ! And I can tell you you're not fit to black 
his boots! Why, I wouldn't pick you up with the 
tongs ! 



74 The P.Gs. 

Chris (backing totoards the door), Ex-actly so. 
D — delighted to hear it. Madam. 

Diana. And I'm writing to accept him, and will 
shakel the dust of this hateful place off my feet be- 
fore I am an hour older. 

Chris (outside — but ivith his head round the 
door), Ex-actly so! (Exit.) 

Diana (calling to Sally and ringing the bell vio- 
lently) . Sally! (Enter Sally.) Pack my box in- 
stantly, — this minute ! I have bad news from home 
and must leave here to-night: (stamping) Do you 
hear? (Exit.) • 

Sally. Oh, yes, Miss, I hear!' (Addressing Diana's 
retreating form). What's the good of yer stuffing 
me up it was news from 'ome, when I knows it was 
the old gent? You've 'ad an escape, though, you 
'ave! Fancy settin' opposite a stuttering old pot- 
'ook like 'im all the days of yer life! (Exit. Billy, 
Kitty, and Dolly have appeared at the window, un- 
seen by Sally during the last speech. Chris, un- 
disguised, now joins them, and all enter. 

Dolly. Are you quite sure you have got rid of her, 
Chris? 

Chris. Oh, yes! I've got rid of her all right! 
And — did you hear that she's had a proposal from 
an old pal? I shouldn't wonder if she's rushing 
off to nail him to his promise. 

Wolly. A proposal ? Has she ? Diana ? Well ! 
Tastes differ, — don't they? luckily for all of us. 

Sally (bursting in from hall) . Please, 'm, where's 
Jones? I can't, find 'im ; an' I want 'im to carry Miss 
Loveday's boxes, Mum. 

Kitty. Jones? . . . Oh, ... I'm afraid he 
isn't heire, Sally! Mr. Larkins has gone away sud- 
denly, and taken Jones with him. 

Sally (holding her heart). Gorn away, suddent, 
— taken Jones with 'im ! Lor, Mum, 'ave yer counted 
the spoons? Oh, they've been and gone and robbed 
you, — -take my word for it ! I always kne w they was 
up to no good! (To Chris.) And you're the detec- 



The P.Gs. 75 

tive, of course, sir? Well, sir, don't be 'ard on 
Jones! I have a soft spot in me 'eart for Jones, 
thoug 'e ivere such a queer old body to look at. And 
'e was led away by the old gent, sir, you may depend. 
I daresay 'e wouldn't 'ave been good enough for me, 
as things 'as turned out; but, lor, it 'as upset me! 
ril go upstairs and 'ave a good cry. It'll do me good. 
(Exit, sobbing loudly.) 
Chris. Ex — actly s — so! 

CURTAIN. 



THEM BANNS'^ 

A SKETCH. 

Characters : 

Mrs. Brown. 
Tom Jones. 
Ellen. 

Scene: Back hall at th'e Vicarage. 
Time: Present day. 

(Bell rings off : enter Ellen L: she crosses to door 
R: hell rings again.) 

Ellen. Bless the bell — {opens door). Oh! it's 
you, Tom» 

Tonfi. It is. You look as fresh as a daisy, you do. 

Ellen. Go on! 

Tom. Is the Vicar in? I want to see Mm very 
particler. 

Ellen. No, he isn't. But you can see the missis, 
if she's any good. 

Tom {coming in) . Oh! I dessay she'll do. She 
can give a message to 'er 'usband, I s'pose. 

Ellen. Well, you sit down. She's over at the 
school, but she won't be long. {She siveeps up 
hpa/)'th.) Let's see, — you're to be called in Ch'urch 
to-morrow, you and Mary Ann, ain't you? 

Tom. Ah! . . . So 7/ot^'t?6 'eard that! 

Ellen. Of course I 'ave. 

Tom. 'Oo've you been gossipin' with ? 

Ellen. Gossipin'! Well, I'm sure ! You and Mary 
Ann ain't much to gossip about ! Been keeping com- 
pany half a lifetime, haven't you ? {Straightens fur- 
niture.) Why, you'll soon be grey-'eaded, the pair of 
you ! 

Tom {anxiously touching his hair). Well, a grey 

76 



''Them Banns'' 77 

'air or two don't 'urt. . . . Look 'ere, my girl, 
would you call me a personable msm, now? 

Ellen (regarding him critically). Well, — y — yes, 
— I shouldn't call you a bad-looking chap. (Coyly.) 
And when you're smartened up, same as you was 
at thfe Social the otheir night, you look real nice, 

Tom (pulling dovjn ivoAstcoat, and. smiling com- 
placently) , Ah ! — Not a feller a girl 'ud be ashamed 
to be seen with, eh? . . . (stroking his chin, and 
scowling). 'Ow did you think Mary Ann looked? 

Ellen (with a scornful laugh). Oh! She didn't 
look like nothing at all ! But then she don't set up 
for looks, do she? (Listens.) There's the missis! 
she musn't catch me here jawing to you. (Exit 
hurriedly L. Jones examines himself with obvious 
gratification in the glass, but moves away as Mrs. 
Brown comes in L. Mrs. Brown is intensely well 
meaning and unworldly) . 

Mrs. Brotvn. Good morning, Jones. You want 
to seel the Vicar about something very special, Ellen 
tells me. 

Tom. Yes, mum. About them banns o' mine. 

Mrs. Brown (sits C.) . Oh, yes! Sit down. (Tom 
sits on edge of chair L.) . They are to be put up 
to-morrow, are they not? 

Tom (twirling his hat, and shuffling his feet). 
Yes, mum, they is. . . . Leastways, they ivas. 

Mrs. Brown. Oh? Anything the matter? 

Tom. Well, mum, I'm in a bit of a 'ole, mum. 

Mrs. Brown (in a tone of earnest concern). A 
hole, Jones? I'm sorry to hear that. Is Mary Ann, 
er — not (ahem) willing'! 

Tom. Oh, yes, mum! She's willing, but / ain't! 

Mrs. Brown. But how shocking! Really, Jonefe 



Tom. No, mum, it's no use your talkin'. It's 'er 
overbearin' temper, an' I can't put up with it no 
more. . . . You know the old sayin', mum, "Marry 
in 'aste' 



78 ''Them Banns'' 

Mrs. Brown, Haste? Haven't you been keepin' 
company eight years? 

Tom, We 'ave. An' that's what's brought it 
'ome to me, the kind o' woman sh^e is, I ain't made 
for a 'en-pecked 'usban', / ain't, an' if 'er an' me got 
spliced, there'd be words in the 'ome before the day 
was out. 

Mrs. Brown {with a pained look) . Oh, but Jones, 
**Birds in their little nests agree," or should do. 
Surely if you spoke to Mary Ann? 

Tom {with scorn). Spoke to 'er! I've spoke 
till I'm fair sick on it. But she's as obstinate as a 
ole pig, she is. 

Mrs. Broivn {shaking her head) . It's very wrong 
to talk so. Beside's, we all have our faults. 

Tora. We 'ave, mum. But there's faults and 
faults, and a cantankerous female ain't to be borne 
with, not as a wife. I've thought so many a time, 
but I 'adn't the sperrit to back out o' the job. {Re- 
flectively.) An' then again, of course, she 'a.s got a 
nice little 'ome, an' a tidy business, an' I'd only 'ave 
to 'ang up my 'at there, an' take it easy, if I could but 
stummick Mary Ann. But there! I can't. I'd 
sooner face a angry bull than a narsty tempered 
woman, an' as for livin' with 'er, year in an' year 
out — 

Mrs. Brown. But — er — suppose she should sue 
you, for breach of promise? 

Tom {grinning). She won't do that, mum; I 
made sure o' that, first thing! . . . "Bless yer, 
no !" she says, *'it wouldn't break my 'eart to lose 
yer" she says. **But you've passed me your word,'* 
she says, **an' I'll 'old you to it," she says, **till you 
can tell me you're ackshally promised to another 
woman/' she says. 

Mrs. Brown {drawing herself up). Really! 

Tom. Ye^. mum. Them was 'er words. **An' I 
don't believe," she says, '* 'as there's another wom.an 
in the parish as 'ud look at yer!" she says, **leave 



''Them Banns'' 79 

alone as our banns '11 be called termorrer !'' she says, 
an' starts a-larfin', fit to bust 'erself ! 

M7^s. Brown. Most unseemly! / see nothing to 
laugh at. {Gets up,) Well, I suppose you would 
like the Vicar to put off publishing the banns for 
the present? which will, of course, bring Mary Ann 
to her senses. . . . Is not that your idea? 

Tom (ivho has also risen). Well, mum, what I 
should like first of all, if you've no objection, is to 
set 'ere for five minutes, and think it over, quiet- 
like. 

Mrs. Brown. Very sensible, indeed, Jones. Don't 
act in a hurry, whatever you do. 

Tom (meekly). No mum. 

Mrs. Brown. You just think it well over. (Goes 
to door L. and turns). Who knows but what you 
and Mary Ann might shake down perfectly? 

Tom. I'm afraid it 'ud take a deal o' shakin', 
mum; a deal o' shakin'! {Exit Mrs. Brown. Tom 
grins broadly as the door shuts, and then breaks into 
a chuckle, after which he goes to ivindoiv and ivhis- 
ties twice.) Ah! There yer are, my girl. 

Ellen {at window). Oh! / didn't come for your 
whistling! I just happened to be passing! But 
what d' you want? 

Tom {cautiously). You step inside, and I'll tell 
you. {Ellen comes in,) Look 'ere, 'ow 'd you likel 
to git married? 

Ellen. Married? Goon! What are you talking 
about ? 

Tom. Now don't you go firin' up when a feller 
only asks you a civil question! What I says is — 
'Ow 'd you like to git married? 

Ellen. Depend who it was. But it's no concern 
o' yours. 

Tom. That's as may be. . . . There's the 
baker's young man, — so I've 'eard 

Ellen {with contempt). 'Im? He's a poor saw- 
ney, he is, and^ so I've told him many's the time! 



80 ''Them Banns'' 

Tom. Ow ! (grinning) . Then p'raps you'd sooner 
'ave me than 'im, if I was to be 'ad, so to speak! 

Ellen, Well, I should think so. You are a man, 
anyways, whatever else you ain't, and he ain't much 
better than a turnip! 

Tom {dravjing nearer). Look you 'ere, my dear. 
'Ow would you like to be called in Church to-morrer, 
along o' me? 

Ellen {much startled). What? Me? Along o' 
you? whatever do you melan? 

Tom, Jus' what I say. My banns is goin' to be 
called to-morrer, an' Mary Ann's ain't, — not if I 
knows it. 

Ellen. Well, I never I 

Tom. It's as true as I stand 'ere. There's goin' 
to be another name than 'ers called along o' minel, 
an' if you'd like it to be your name, say the word, me 
dear ! 

Ellen. Well, I never I And whatever'd Mary Ann 
say? 

Tom. That's neither 'e|re nor there. I makes you 
an offer, an' you takes it or leacels it, — see? But 
I ain't got no time to spare argyin' over it, so speak 
up, quick, Ellen. {Picks up hat.) If you won't, 
there's bound to be them as will. 

Ellen. Ah ! I daresay that's true! enough. . . . 
Well, — {with a coy giggle) . I'll take you, Tom, but, 
lor', I do feel all of a tremble. {Leans up against 
chair. ) 

Tom. Come on, now; — you just pull yourself to- 
gether, my girl, and mum's the word. {Jerks thumb 
over shoulder.) They won't know wel ain't been 
thinkin' on it this long while. There's yer missis 
comin', you'd best get away quick. . . . 'Ere ! 

Ellen. Oh, go on! 

Tom. Yes, 'ere ! ! 

Ellen. Oh! go on! {Hasty embrace, and Ellen 
hurries out at door R. Tom seats himself carefidly 
on chair L. and assumes a stolid appearance. Enter 
Mrs. Brown.) 



I 



''Them Banns'' 81 

Mrs, Brown, Well, Jones! {Jones gets up,) I 
trust you have come to a suitable decision. {Smoth- 
ered giggle from Ellen outside,) 

Tom {passing his hand over his mouth). Yes, 
mum. You'll kindly tell the Vicar that I want my 
banns called termorrer same as arranged. 

Mrs, Brown, Fm thankful to hear it. I felt sure 
you ivould think better of it. 

Tom {fervently), I 'ave, mum. {Goes towards 
door R.) 

Mrs, Brown, Good! Then youVe made up your 
mind to be true to Mary Ann? 

Tom {at door). Well, mum, hAff^ goin' to be 
called, but it ain't wth Mary Anix. It's with Ellen, 
mum, your 'ousemaid. Good mornin', mum. 

{Exit, leaving Mrs, Broivn shocked and horrified.) 

CURTAIN. 



THE TOOLIP 

A DUOLOGUE. 

Characters: 

Elizabeth Erie ( each occupying an almshouse on 

Thomas Blythc ) bhe Riven estate. 

Time: Present day. 

Scene: Elizabeth's living=room. 

Scene I: time, about eleven o'clock on a winter 
morning. 

Scene II: time, about four=thirty p. m. nearly a 
fortnight later. 

SCENE I. 

Elizabeth is discovered siveeping; she opens door 
Ly and sweeps dust out on to path. 

Voice ivithout, Marnin', Lizbeth! 

Elizabeth, Marnin', Thomas! Come in, won't 
ye? come in! an' 'ave a crack wi' me. 

(Enter Thomas.) 

Thomas. (He puts stick in corner L, and comes 
forward rubbing his hands.) Well, an' 'ow be you 
this cold marnin'? 

Elizabeth (leaning on broom). Ah! the cold do 
get into my pore old bones somethin' crool. An' 
what wi' that^ an' me bad sight, an' not bein' able 
to git about easy, I'm in a bad way, I am. . . . 
Sit ye down, Thomas, sit ye down. (Hobbles over 
to corner to put away broom.) But there! I can't 
expect nothin' different at my age. An' 'ow be you 
feelin'? 

Thomas (sits). Pretty middlin'! pretty middlin'! 
/ don't get no younger, neither ! An' 'ow's the toolip 
goin' on? 

Elizabeth (shaking her head). Ah! it don't grow 



The Toolip 83 

as well as Fd 'oped for, an' Fm bitter disappoint'! 
Yours'll be the best un after all, though it didn't 
look near so promisin' as mine at the start. (She 
picks up a duster and limps about the room dusting 
while she talks.) 

Thomas. But you ain't seen my toolip this long 
while, so 'ow are you to know it's better nor yourn ? 
You don't know nothin' about it, whether it be or it 
baint ! 

Elizabeth. That I do, then! Baker was tellin' 
me only this m_arnin' what a fine upstandin' flower 
yours were. 

Thomas (contemptuously). Backer! I never 'eard 
as *e knowed aught about flowers, except the sorts 
'is bread's made on ! 

Elizabeth. Ay, Thomas! you was always such a 
one for your joke. 

Thomas. An' what's more, I don't believe 'e's 
ever clapped eyes on my toolip. 'Owever, anyways 
Fll take care to put it where no one can see it, this 
very day. But I doubt 'e was just tryin' to get a 
rise out o' you. 

Elizabeth. No, no, 'e's ketched a sight o' your 
plant some'ow or other. An' 'e says to me, 'e says: 
— "Old Master Blythe's toolip ull lick yourn all to 
fits," 'e says, "if it go on as well as it begun." Them 
was 'is very words the impident feller ! 

Thomas (thoughtfully) . Ah! Was they indeed? 

Elizabeth. They was. (Stands still facing 
Thomas.) Ah, Thomas, it ain't that I grudge you 
the prize. It's only — only — (clasps her duster with 
a tragic gesture) that — Fd so dearly love to 'ave 
it meself I 

Thomas. Well, it's early days talkin' ; there's a 
longish bit o' time ye^t awhile afore the show, an' 
your plant may come on to be finer nor mine for all 
we know. Let's 'ave a look at it. (He gets up, and 
goes to table in corner R) . Lor ! but it do look peaky, 
don't it? Still, there's plenty o' time, — plenty o' 



84 The Toolip 

time . Very like that'll be a proper 'andsome flower 
afore it's done. 

Elizabeth (dismally). Oh, yes! maybe it will, 
when it's too late to be any good, an' someone else 
'as took the prize. That'll be just my luck; an' only 
what I ought to look for. 

Thomas (turning round) , Well, you surprise me, 
Lizbeth, you do. You're! a fairly sensible woman 
mostly, as women go, take you altogether, an' I 
never thought you'd be that set on a bit of a prize. 

Elizabeth (sharply). Well, an' 'ow about you? 
Ain't you set on it yourself? 

Thomas (rubbing his head). Maybe I am, come 
to think on it. But I never reckoned some'ow as 
you'd care much, one way or the other. 

Elizabeth. Then you're just out; I do care. Eh! 
but carin' won't git me the prize, I know that well 
enough. An' I know I'd ought to be use' to disap- 
p'intments by this time,, seein' what a-many I've 
'ad to bear (Takes duster to door, and shakes it out.) 
Ay dear me ! that I 'ave, then. But I'd such a won- 
derful fancy to git this 'ere prize, for -I've never got 
one yet in all my born days ! 

Thomas. Well, that's more nor I can say, ain't 
it? Recollec' me gettin' a prize for runnin' when I 
were a young lad ? Ay, bless yer ! seems as if I 
could 'ear the cheerin' an' all now! . . . D'ye 
mind, Lizbeth? 

Elizabeth. Yes, o' course I mind. Red as a 
turkey-cock you was an' looked fit to bust, as one 
may say. An' that set up you was too, as if no-one 
'ad ever won a prize afore. 

Thomas. Well, well ! that's the way o' young lads, 
ye see. An' the way of old uns too, seemin'ly, for I 
won't deny I'd be proper proud if I did get 'is lord- 
ship's prize for the toolip. I've watched an' tended 
that there flower, same as if it was a child ! 

Elizabeth (with irritation). Oh! you needn't be 
worryin' yourself, Thomas; you always was lucky. 
You'll git thte prize, most like. Anyways, if you 



The Toolip 85 

don't, it won't be me as will, that's all / know! I 
never did 'ave no luck, never; an' I'm sure I dunno 
whyever I should 'ave expected to begin now, at my 
time o' life. 

Thomas. Choo! choo! Don't talk so ridic'lus, 
Lizbeth. To 'ear you go on, anybody'd think all the 
parish was compe,tin' against you, instead of only 
the other almshouses. You'd ought to 'ave more 
sense. 

Elizabeth. Well, you needn't be so sharp on a 
body. 

Thomas. Sharp! Stuff an' nonsense! An' an- 
other tMng I can tell you, there's only you an' mei in 
the runnin'. (Jerks thumb over shoulder.) Them 
two old bodies won't 'ave nothin' fit to show, an' 
they knows it. But, bless yer! they ain't worrying 
theirselves, not thfly! You know 'is lordship prom- 
ised to give a somethin' to them as didn't win the 
prize. Maybe you'd forgotten that, Lizbeth ? 

Elizabeth. No, I ain't forgot nothin'. But 'oo 
wants a somethin'? That's not the same thing as 
gettin' the prize! 

Thomas. More it ain't. But it's next door to it, 
an' better than nothin'. 

Elizabeth. That's as folk may think. . . . No, 
I'd set me 'eart on that there prize, an' I ain't a-goin' 
to git it, an' I'll never 'ave another chance, not at 
my age. {Mournfully.) I doubt I'll never see an- 
other winter, Thomas ; never another winter. 

Thomas {cheerfully). Go on! You told us that 
last year, an' the year before that, an' the year afore 
that, too! God willin' you'll see plenty o' winters 
yet, if only you'll pluck up a bit o' sperrit ! 

Elizabeth. No, no! I ain't long for this world. 
I'm sure I ain't. 

Thomas. That's all gammon. If you was to give 

over frettin' an' worrittin' about every trifle you'd 

be a difi'erent woman in a week. 

. Elizabeth {turning upon him). An' if you was 

to give over preachin' an' lecturin' your betters, it 



86 The Toolip 

'ud be a blessin'! Ain't it enough that you should 
'ave all the luck, without 'oldin' forth that way to 
them as aren't so fortnit? You leave me be, Thomas 
Blyth^, an' mind your own consarns, an' Til mind 
mine ! 

Thomas. Bless the woman! 'Ow she do fly out, 
to be sure! But you didn't ought to turn nasty, 
Lizbeth, for I'm only speakin' for your own good. 
You let things reg'lar get on your nerves, an' worry 
an' fuss over 'em till it seems like you can't get no 
pleasure out o' nothin'. It don't matter what it is — 
that there old toolip, or any thin' else that comes 
'andy; — you must go an' make a trouble of it. 

Elizabeth (solemnly) . Ah! we can't git past our 
natures, Thomas, an' I'm one o' those as 'as a feeling 
'eart, — a very feelin' 'eart. It's the feelin' 'eart 
that wears a body out. — An' I'm a bit extry queer 
to-day, just same as if I was goin' to be ill again, an' 
whatever 'ud become of my pore toolip then, I'd 
like to know? 

Thomas (slowly) . I dunno. I dunno, I'm sure. 

Elizabeth (turning away, and fidgeting ivith the 
things on the dresser or table for a few seconds). 
Well, then, I do. (Pause; then she goes on in a 
shaky voice.) Stands to reason — I'd lose — me last 
— bit o' chance (puts apron surreptitiously up to her 
eyes.) If I was — laid by, an' couldn't-^ — look to the 
plant. 

Thomas (in astonishment). Well, I'm blest! If 
you ain't cryin' for that there old prize ! 

Elizabeth (with an indignant sob, not turning 
round). Cryin'f (Sniff.) Me cryin'? (Snifl.) 
Whatever 'ull you say next, I wonder? But I'm a 
bit upset this marnin', one way an' another, an' 
all of a tremble=like. Leave me be, an' get ye gone, 
Thomas, 

Thomas. Yes, I'd best be goin', (Goes to door, 
and picks up stick). An' don't you be so down- 
hearted, my girl. Try an' pluck up a bit o' spirit, as 
I says just now^an' see what that'll do for ye. 



i 



The Toolip 87 

Elizabeth (wiping her eyes) . Get ye gone! . . . 
Get ye gone! (Thomas stands looking at her; is 
about to speak, but thinks better of it, and goes 
sloivly out, looking back as he goes. Elizabeth weeps 
silently. ) 

CURTAIN. 



SCENE IL 

(Elizabeth is asleep in her armchair, her feet up 
on another chair, and a blanket over her. Door L 
is very cautiously opened, and Thomases head ap- 
pears rou7id it; he looks about, then comes softly 
in, pushing the door carefidly to behind him. He 
crosses the room on tiptoe — keeping a loary eye on 
Elizabeth — to the table in corner R., takes from in- 
side his coat a pot containing a fine pink tulip, and 
deposits it on the table. He then picks up the very 
iveedy-looking tulip plant already there, surveys it 
'with many grimaces and shakes of the head, tucks 
it inside his coat, noislessly retraces his steps, and 
exit, shutting the door very quietly. Elizabeth 
snores slightly. (Pause.) Knock at door; there is 
no reply, and knock is repeated more loudly. Eliza- 
beth stirs, opens her eyes, and calls out feebly,) 
**Come in. !^' 

(Enter Thomas.) 

Thomas (innocentlij) . It^s only me, Lizbeth. I 
jus' stepped round to ask 'ow you was. 

Elizabeth. Not much to boast on! But V\n bet- 
ter; oh, yes, a sight better, thank ye kindly. 

Thomas (dratoing up chair RC) . That's right, — 
1 see Nurse goin' by just now, an' she says you're 
doin' fine, an' she ain't com in' no more, 

Elizabeth. No, sIk* uifi'l coiniir no more; she's 
gone back to Setfuj'd. T can scaggle along by myself 
now. Eh ! but it's be-en a weary time, it 'as indeed. 



88 The Toolip 

Why, 'ow long is it since you was in 'ere last, 
Thomas? 

Thomas. Well, now, 'ow long would it be? 

Elizabeth. Goin' on for a fortnight, I do believe! 
That's a goodish while, ain't it ? 

Thomas. Ay, a goodish while. An' did Nurse tell 
what a fine plant your toolip 'ad growed ? I told 'er 
to be suren to; I thought it 'ud 'earten you up a bit. 

Elizabeth (brightening). Yes, she told me; she 
said it 'ad growed a real beauty, an' gettin' 'and- 
somer every day. But she wouldn't let me see it; 
she said I didn't ought to be excited. 

Thomas. An' she was quite right; I should say 
she'd a deal o' sense, that vv^oman. But I 'spose 
there's no objection to your seein' it now you're 
better? 

Elizabeth. No, not now there ain't. I'm lookin' 
forward to that. You go an' 'ave a look at it first. 

Thomas {getting up). Right yer are, my girl. 
{He crosses to table R. and picks up tulip.) Why, 
Lizbeth! it's a grand flower; — somethin' splendid! 
You'd ought to be right down proud of it. Grand, 
it is, an' no mistake^ 

Elizabeth. Well, I'm glad o' that. But t'isn't 
much use if other folks' is grander. 

Thomas. Ah! this 'ere 'ud take a lot o' beatin'. 
Why, it's more like a great rose nor anythin'; an' 
ain't it a colour! Blest if it won't take the shine 
out o' all the flowers at the shov/ ! 

Elizabeth. Ah! you be very kind to praise up my 
toolip like that, Thomas, — very kind you be. But 
I doubt we'll 'ear a different tale when we seen 
yourn an' mine together. 

Thomas {putting doton plant). Oh! Do you, 
now? Well, that's as may be. But I knows a good 
flower when I sees it, an' this 'ere 

Elizabeth {interrupting impatiently) . There! the 
kettle's bilin'. P'raps you'll wet the tea for me, an' 
save me movin'. You means well, Thomas, I know 
that — very well, you means, but I've 'ad enough o' 



TheToolip , 89 

that toolip. It may be good, but it ain't the best, 
an' I don't want to talk about it no more. 

Thomas. Just as you please, my dear ! (He makes 
tea.) 

Elizabeth. You'd best stop an' 'ave a cup o' tea 
with me. The milk'll be outside, an' the bread is 
yonder. (Thomas looks about vaguely.) There, 
man ! right before you, as plain as the nose on your 
face. Bless me ! what 'elpless critters men are ! 

Thomas (sturdily). That they ain't. An' any- 
ways, where would you be without 'em ? tell me that ! 
(Puts bread on table.) Lor! the world 'ud be a dull 
place, wi' nowt but a pack o' females clackin' to- 
gether ! 

Elizabeth. A deal better nor if it were all men, 
drinkin' an' quarrelin' an' goin' on! There's the 
butter, Thomas, can't ye see? an' the knives close 
to it an' all. Lark-a-daisy me! whatever was your 
eyes put in your yead for? 

Thomas. Ah! If I was to make as good use o' 
my eyes as you do o' your tongue, I'd do well enough, 
wouldn't I? There ye are, then. (Puts knives and 
butter on table E.) An' now for that there milk. 
(Goes to door and takes in milk jug,) 

Elizabeth,. An' there's a pot o' jam on there what 
was sent down from the 'All. I couldn't eat it whein 
I were ill, but it done me good to set an' look at it. 

Thomas (fetching jam and opening it). Well, 
that's more nor I can understand. / shouldn' get 
much satisfaction out o' lookin at somethin* I 
couldn't eat, not me! But the fe.male seek, — well, 
they're past understandin' by a plain man. I give 
up the job a long while ago. (He arranges rest of 
tea things.) 

Elizabeth. An' the best thing you could do. We 
wasn't never moant to understand one another, — 
only to put up with each other as best as we could ! 
Now sit ye down, do, Thomas; don't go fidgetin' 
round no more. 



90 The Toolip 

{Thomas sits, ayicl they begin tea, Thomas looks 
round at tulip,) 

Thomas, Ah ! that there toolip o' yourn, I can't 
'elp talkin' of it, Lisbeth; it does my 'eart good to 
look at it. An' only three days to the show — only 
three days ! 

Elizabeth {curtly,) I dessay. It don't matter 
much to me when it is, for I ain't goin'. 

Thomas, Ain't goin' ? Why, it's only a step, an' 
you'll be well enough. Nurse said. 

Elizabeth, Maybe. But I ain't goin'. 

Thomas, Oh, yes ! you'd best go ; I could take you 
round in the chair. 

Elizabeth, You could; but I'll not trouble you. 
I'd git tire,d an' put about all for nowt, an' I'm best 
at home. 

Thomas, No, you ain't. It'd do you a power o' 
good to get out among the folks, an' see the flowers 
an' all. A long way better for you than to set at 
'ome mopin'. 

Elizabeth, An' 'oo says I'd be mopin'? 

Thomas, I says it, an' knows it. An' you knows 
it too. 

Elizabeth, I don't know nothin' of the kind. If 
a body what ain't been well 'as a fancy to set quiet in 
'er own 'ome, can't she do it, without anyone passin' 
remarks ? 

Thomas {impressively) , If a body 'asn't got the 
sense to know 'er own luck, well, someone else 'as 
got to p'int it out to 'er, that's all! 

Elizabeth, Ldunno what you mean. If you was 
to speak out plain maybe I'd understand you. 

Thomas, Maybe you would. Well then, look you 
'ere. YoiCre a-goin* to get that there prize, as sure 
as Fm settin- on this chair! 

Elizabeth {eagerly, grasping the arms of her 
chair). Thomas! I ain't! 

Thomas. That you are, tlieiK Now don't go an' 
get excited, but set quiet, an' rll bring you the toolip 
so as you can see for yourself. 



The Toolip 91 

Elizabeth. Why, I can't 'ardly believe it. Sure 
you're not makin' fun on me, Thomas? 

Thomas (ivith fine indignation, as he gets up). 
What? Me tell you you was goin' to get the prize 
when you wasn't? Ain't you known me, boy an' 
man, all my life, and you think 

Elizabeth (hastily) . No, no. I don't think nothin' 
at all. But you know your plant was finer nor mine 
at one time. 

Thomas (crosses to table R,). Well, an' what if 
it was? That's not to say as it'll stop so, is it? Why, 
bless me ! there's no two ways about it. This is the 
finest toolip ever I see! Look-a-there, my girl; if 
that don't satisfy you I dunno what would. Ain't 
it a beauty, now, just about? (He puts it before 
her.) 

Elizabeth (admiringly) . My! ain't it, then? Yes, 
I reckon it's the 'andsomest / ever seen. An' you're 
sure yours isn't 'andsomer, if you was to tell truth ? 

Thomas (dramatically). Now just 'ark to the 
woman ! Didn't I say two minutes ago as that was 
the finest toolip ever I see? 

Elizabeth (nodding her head). Ay, you did — you 
did. 

Thomas. Then what are you talking about? My 
toolip finer than that? Well, it ain't, an' I never 
spoke a truer word! 

Elizabeth. Well I never! It do seem wonderful 
mine should a' turned out the best after all. But 
you took a deal o' trouble over yours. Thomas; I 
dessay it's a good flower, too. 

Thomas. I dessay it is. An' I dessay you'd like 
to 'ave a look at it! Well, I've no objections; seein's 
believin', so th^ey say; I'll fetch it along. You bide 
quieit till I come back. (Exit,) 

(Elizabeth fumbles for her spectacles, slowly puts 
them on, and peers closely at the tulip, with admir- 
ing ejaculations.) 

(Re-enter Thomas carrying tulip.) 

Thomas. Well, Lizbeth, 'ere you are. (He puts 



92 The Toolip 

it down beside the other.) What do you think o' 
that? 

Elizabeth. Why, Thomas, oo'd 'a thought it? it 
ain't near so fine ! You was quite right. 

Thomas. Quite right? 0' course I was quite 
right. Not much doubt which'll get the prize, is 
there ? 

Elizabeth. No, that's true enough. But you're 
disapp'inted, Thomas, I'm afeared. 

Thomas (loudly). Disapp'inted? Not me; Fve 
got more sense. I'm a reasonable man, / am. 

Elizabeth. Well, I'm real glad you don't mind. 
. . . Just fancy me gettin' a prize after all, at my 
time o' life ! Ah ! I'm a 'appy woman this day. 

Thomas. That's good news, that is. An' when 
I goes to the shbw, as you ain't goin', I'll be sure 
an' bring you word what all the folks say about your 
fine toolip. (With a sigh, picking up the plant.q Ay, 
they'll be crowdin' round it as thick as bees, ad- 
mirin' of it. 

Elizabeth (loith pride) . That they will. (Pause; 
then, insinuatingly) Thomas, I 'ope you didn't think 
me ongratef ul, did you ? 

Thomas (startled, but cautious). Ongrateful? 
What for? 

Elizabeth. Why, about you takin' me to the show. 

Thomas. Oh ! no. I dunno as I did, not perticler. 
Why? 

Elizabeth. 'Cause I was just thinkin' — p'raps 
it wouldn't be right for me to stop away, if I was 
anyways able to go. An' I like to do what's right; 
specially after learnin' the lesson I 'ave this day ! 

Thomas. An' what might that be ? 

Elizabeth. Why, that them as is 'umble, an' don't 
expect nothin', does git their deserts now an' again, 
in spite o' everybody! (She nods her head defiantly.) 

Thomas (drily). Ah! In spite o' everything! 

Elizabeth. Yes. (Draivs the small tulip toivards 
her.) But it don't prevent me bein' sorry as your 
toolip should 'a turned out such a pore measly ob- 



The Toolip 9S 

ject, though I am proud o' mine bein' so big an' fine. 
. . . Why, it don't seem no time since it was only 
jus' above ground, an' — so's I might see 'ow fast 
it growed, — I tied a bit o' green wood round it, as 
it might be 'ere. Why, — why! — whatever's this? 
'Ere is the wool! . . . no, it can't be, for this is 
your toolip ! . . . Yes, it is though, I do believe, 
the very same bit o' wool ! 

Thomas {all taken aback). Bit o' wool? Non- 
sense, there ain't no wool! 'Ere, give us 'old, Liz- 
beth, for I've got to be goin' — d'ye 'ear? (He seizes 
pot, but Elizabeth clutches it desperately, and re- 
tains it.) 

Elizabeth {unwinding and holding up a tail of 
green wool). Ain't no wool? What d'you call that, 
then? 

Thomas. I dunno; just nothin', — somethin' as 
caught in it, I s'pose. Give us 'old, quick; I can't 
stop no longer. 

Elizabeth. I reckon you'll 'ave to stop till w've 
'ad this out. You've got to explain this 'ere wool. 

Thomas {trying to collect his wits) . I — I — I don't 
know why ever you're makin' a fuss ! Why shouldn't 
/ 'ave tied a bit o 'wool round, too? 

Elizabeth. I dunno why you shouldn't, but I 
know you didn't, or you'd 'a said so afore! 

Thomas. Well, you jumped on me so sudden-like, 
I didn't 'ardly know what I loas sayin',— that's all! 
Now give us the toolip, Lizbeth, without no more 
nonsense, for I want to go 'ome. 

Elizabeth {shaking her head). No, no, Thomas, 
you ain't a-goin' 'ome yet awhile, — you listen to me. 
This 'ere is my toolip. 

Thomas. You've no call to think so. 

Elizabeth. I don't think it, I knows it. You 
changed 'em! I dunno 'ow you done it, or ivhen you 
done it, but you done it. You changed 'em ! 

Thomas {cornered). Changed 'em? 

Elizabeth. Yes, changed 'em. 

Thomas {helplessly). Changed 'cm. 



94 The Toolip 

Elizabeth. Yes ; changed 'em I What do you want 
to go sayin' my words after me for, sam.e as a par- 
rot? 

Thomas (dully repeating). Parrot? 

Elizabeth. Yes; parrot! Now, look you 'ere, 
Thomas Blythe, You're a good m_an, an' a kind m.an, 
an' you done a thing for me as I wouldn't 'a done 
for you; I owns it. But Elizabeth Erie ain't the 
wom_an to take what don't belong to 'er, whether it's 
a prize or the credit o' gettin' it, or anythin' else. 
So 'ere's your toolip (she pushes the big one towards 
him)y an' if ever a man deserved a prize, it's you, 
Thomas, 

Thomas (earnestly). I— don't want it, Lizbeth; 
I'd sooner things stopped as they was. Prizes an' 
that is more to a female than they is to a man 
when all's said. An' if it 'adn't been for that there 
old dratted bit o' wool, you'd never have found out. 

Elizabeth (sloivly getting out of her chair). 
Maybe not. But Pm glad I did find out, for it 
wouldn't 'ave been fair nor right. . . . No, no; 
you take your toolip — (she puts it, with a shaky 
hand into his) — an' your prize when the time comes 
— an' my blessin' with 'em! An' p'raps — you was 
right — (puts her hand on his arm) — an' Pll live to 
see another winter aftetr all. 

Thomas (patting her hand) . Ay ! An' maybe 
win a prize yet ! 

CURTAIN. 



( 



wkGng again 

A DUOLOGUE. 

Characters: — 

Mrs, Stiggins, an old woman. 

Mrs. Evayi^, a buxom young widow. 

(Thtey are next-door neighbours.) 

Scene:— 

The yard, or the kitchen, of Mrs, Evan's cottage. 

When curiam rises Mrs. Evwns is blacking a pair 
of shoes. 

Enter Mrs, Stiggins, slowly, leaning on stick. 

Mrs, Stiggins. Marnin', Mis' Evans! Deary-me! 
it be quite chilly, that it be. 

Mrs. Evans. No, it ain't; not to anyone as 'as 
work to do to keep 'em warm. It's standin' about 
haverin' an' gossiping that chills the blood in a 
body's veins. (Brushes shoe vigorously.) Chilly! 
. . . there's some folks must always be grumblin'. 

Mrs. Stiggins. I warn't grumblin' ! I only passed 
a remark, an' you go an' take me up! . . . I'll 
tell ye what it is, Mis' Evans, it ain't good for ye to 
live all alone, It gits on yer nerves, an' sets ye all 
on edge, like. 

- Mrs. Evans (contemptuously). Go along with 
you! It don't do nothing of the sort. I've got no 
time for nerves an' that, thanks be. Nerves! Pack 
o' rubbish, / call 'em ! 

Mrs. Stiggins. Don't tell me! When folks 'as 
lived all alone along o' their selves some while, they 
gets that erritable that nothing can't go right wi' 
'em. You didn't ought to live alone no more, mark 
me! 

Mrs. Evans. Well, Fm the best judge o' that, 

95 



96 Wrong Again 

and I like me own company best, thank you, Mrs. 
Stiggins. 

Mrs, Stiggins. That's easy said, when ye 'aven't 
got no other! Tm sure my Tom has said to me — 
time and agen, he's said, ''Laws! Mother, 'ow pre- 
cious lonely Mis' Evans must be all alone by 'erself !'' 

Mrs. Evans (scornfully) , Tom! . . . Very kind 
of Tom, Fm sure, but he^'s quite wrong, and so you 
can tell him. Not that there's anything wonderful 
in that, for he's never right ! 

Mrs. Stiggins. Well, there now ! ain't it true what 
I say, how erritable ye do get livin' all by yerself ? 

Mrs. Evans. I'd get a deal more erritable livin' 
with anyone else! And as for Tom, if he was to 
mind his own consarns, it 'ud be better for all on us. 
But, there! (collects shoes, brushes, etc.) I can't 
stop chafferin' 'ere about Tom all day. I've got me 
washin' to do. (Clatters off noisily.) 

Mrs. Stiggins (looking after her, and solemnly 
shaking her head) . Lark-a-daisy me : — Lark-a- 
daisy me! — 

(Re-enter Mrs. Evans, carrying a basket of 
clothes. She dumps it down, keeping her back turned 
to Mrs. Stiggins, and takes out the clothes, shaking 
them before hanging them on the line; doing oil 
with ostentatious hurry and bustle.) 

Mrs. Stiggins. Bless the woman ! What a mortal 
'urry ye do be in ! 

Mrs. Evans (ungraciously, over her shoulder). 
Oh ! you're still there, are you ? 

Mrs. Stiggins. Ay! I'm 'ere right enough — 'Ow 
ye do slave yerself to be sure ! You'll not live to be 
as old as me, without you take a bit o' rest now an' 
agen. 

Mrs. Evans (tartly). Well, there ain't no par- 
ticler sense as / can see in livin' to be so wonderful 
old, an' dependin' on your relations. (Pegs more 
garjnents on the line.) Them little black folks, pig- 
mies as they call 'em, wh'at was brought over from 
foreign parts, — when they gets a bit wobbly, and 



Wrong Again 97 

past thteir work, they jest climbs up the tallest tree, 
and chuck theirselves down! They dont 'old with 
livin' on for ever and ever, and bein' a burden on 
their families, they don't! 

Mrs. Stiggins, More shame to 'em ! We was put 
'ere by Them Above, and 'ere we'd ought to bide 
till our time come. Thtey black 'eathen don't know 
no better, bein' dwarfs an' all, but we didn't ought 
to go by them. 

Mrs. Evans. I don't go by nobody but meself — 
An' I always does what's right. 

Mrs. Stiggins. I dunno as you do. If you done 
what was right, to my way o' thinkin', you'd take 
an' marry my Tom, when ye know 'e's that set on it. 
. . . 'Stead o' that, ye just treat 'm like the dirt 
under yer feet, an' yet e' don't drink, nor 'e don't 
swear, an' 'e'll set as quiet over the fire of an evenin' 
as my old tabby. Ay ! set there, 'e will, by the hour 
together, never doin' nothin' at all. ... Ye don't 
see a man like that, not every day o' the week! 

Mrs. Evans {standing defiantly , arms akimbo). A 
man! Well, thtere! Some folks 'as one notion of 
what's a man, an' some 'as another. . . . An' as 
for marryin', — I've took the marryin' job once, an' 
maybe that was once too often. {Business with 
clothes line.) An' then, — Stiggins! Whoever 'eard 
the like o' such a ungodly name ! Maybe you're used 
to it, seein' you've 'ad it such a time an' all, but it 
ain't one Fd care to put me pen to. . . . Stiggins! 
... I reckon Evans is good enough for me. 

Mrs. Stiggins. Deary me! You're mighty par- 
ticler, you be. One name's as good as another, an' 
anyways it ain't worth worrittin' over. 

Mrs. Evans. Maybe not, if it was the only thing 
to take objection to, but it ain't, not by a long way. 
— But there ! we've 'ad enough o' Tom ; I've got me 
work to tMnk of. 

Mrs. Stggins. O' course I know you fretted a 
bit for your first, but you know 'is ways an' tempers 



98 Wrong Again 

was terrible trying, an' Tom 'ud make a nice change 
for ye. 

Mrs. Evans. H'mm ! 

Mrs. Stiggins. A second wife or 'usband may 
'ave their faults, but they're bound to be different 
to the first one's, so a body's more ready to put up 
wi' 'em. Ay ! dear ! but my Tom knows well enough 
ye'll never take 'im. Only this marnin' 'e says it, 
"an' maybe," 'e says, "it's out o' respeck for pore 
old Sam Evans," 'e says. 

Mrs. Evans {sharply). Then it ain't nothin' of 
the kind. My Sam says to me many a time, "Mary," 
'e says, "Don't think nothin' about me when I'm 
dead an' gorn," 'e says, "but take another 'usband 
if it suits your mind," 'e says. 

Mrs. Stiggins. Ah! poor Sam! did he, now? I 
reckon 'e knew you'd suit your mind, whether or no ! 
'E warn't no fool, Sam warn't. But 'e'd a tidy sharp 
tongue of 'is own, same as you 'ave yerself. Tom 
always said you was bound to be cat and dog to- 
gether. 

Mrs. Evans {ivith heat). Tom's bound to be 
wrong, if 'e gives his opinion about anything in 
this blessed world. 'E's always wrong, an' always 
'as been, an' always will be! {Puts peg into her 
mouth.) 

Mrs. Stiggins {acidly). An' I s'pose 'e thinks it 
'ud be nice to 'ave a piece o' perfection same as you 
'andy, to set 'im right all the while! 

Mrs. Evans {her mouth full of clothes-pegs). 
That's — ^that's — {removes peg) just about what 'e 
do think ! 

Mrs. Stiggins. Well, there ! I call it downright 
onnatural for a body to think so much of 'erself as 
what you do ! — {with malice) But I dessay it makes 
up to you a bit for not bein' most other folks' fancy ! 

Mrs. Evans {turning upon her). An' who says I 
ain't other folks' fancy? You don't know nothing 
about it! 

Mrs. Stiggins. I've got eyes in me 'ead, an' ears 



Wrong Again 99 

too, an' I use 'em, what's more ; an' I know 'ow you 
sets some folks agin you with that tongue o' yours ! 
. . . But I puts it down to your workin' so 'ard, 
day in an' day out ; a little rest 'ud make a different 
woman on ye. . . . Tom often says ye'd be twice 
the woman ye be, if you'd take a bit of a 'oliday once 
in a way. 

Mrs, Evans, 'Oliday! I don't want no 'oliday; if 
folks would let me alone that'd be 'oliday enough for 
me. What does Tom want to poke 'is nose in for? 
And e's wrong again, same as usual. What a man 
it is! 'E couldn't be right if 'e tried. (Sniffs.) 
'Im and 'is 'olidays ! Why can't 'e let me be, that's 
what / want to know ! 

Mrs, Stiggins, It ain't no good talkin' to you to- 
day, as I can see. If a body open 'er mouth, you go 
an' contradict 'er flat ! 

Mrs, Evans (sharply). No, I don't! I don't do 
Tiothin' o' the sort ! 

Mrs. Stiggins. That you do, then, an' I'm getting 
sick on it. There! it's gone twelve; I must go an' 
see after Tom's bit o' dinner. (Gets np, helping her- 
self with her stick,) An, look you 'ere, Mis' Evans, 
I ain't sure now but what Tom's a fool to go wantin' 
you for 'is wife an' all. (Nods her head spitefully.) 

Mrs. Evans (smiling). Ah! Tom knows which 
side 'is bread is buttered! 'E ain't got much sense, 
but 'e's got enougW for that. 

Mrs. Stiggins (with rising anger, in a high quav- 
ering voice) . An' then again, I dunno as I'm so par- 
ticler anxious as all that to 'ave you for my daughter- 
in-law, an' so I tells ye ! — There's plenty I'd sooner 
see in my place nor you, an' I doubt we're well rid 
on ye, both on us. 

Mrs. Evans (smiling more broadly, as she picks 
ntp basket). Do you, now? 

Mrs. Stiggins, That I do. An' if you're thinkin' 
Tom'U be disappointed anyways, 'e ivon't, for 'e's 
knowed it all along. This very day 'e says to me, 



100 



Wrong Again 



"Mother," 'e says, **That there woman'll never take 
me," 'e says. 

Mrs. Evans {with another radiant smile), Thea 
'e was wrong again! And if 'e likes to come an* see 
me 'isself , instead of 'iding behind 'is mother's skirts, 
I'll tell 'im so to 'is face. Good marnin'! 

{Exit. Mrs. Stiggins remains speechless and 
open-mouthed.) 

CURTAIN. 







THE LUMBER ROOM 
AND OTHER PLAYS 



CATHERINE BELLAIRS GASKOIN 



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